


Project Übermensch

by Conchshellthegeek7



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Alternate Universe - Future, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Fun With Cosmetics, Gen, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Real Names
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-02-21 06:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 46,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2458055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conchshellthegeek7/pseuds/Conchshellthegeek7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ideas are simple, but pulling them off usually isn't. The idea to create an invention, for example, could kick off a chain of events that sends you hurtling through the dark underbelly and glistening towers of Neo Teufort. When you have an idea, then, it's usually best to be prepared for any direction it could decide to go in -- and keeping your improvisational skills sharp doesn't hurt either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cornwell Electronics

Six TVs in the window of a corner shop flickered with static for a moment, then sprung back to life. They showed the final two frames of an over-the-top ad for Bonk! Atomic Punch, then suddenly switched to a man standing in front of some kind of wheat farm. He was a stout little man with a round head and a face full of dark brown hair -- beard, mustache and sideburns in abundance -- but not a single follicle on his head. He wore a brown vest with a utility belt of some kind over a semi-formal red shirt, yellow kneepads over a pair of comfortable looking pants, and a pair of goggles with lenses that glowed bright red.

 

“Howdy, y’all!” the man announced through the tinny speakers outside the shop. “My name’s Alan Cornwell! Does your life ever feel like this?” The screen cut to a long, static shot of the a large, empty wheat field, intercut with the sounds of chirping birds and the quick, deep moo of a dairy cow. “Sounds dull, right?” Alan laughed, leaping back out in front of the camera. “Hey! It’s 2068, Stretch! You gotta start livin’ like a city mouse!”

 

A large, expansive cityscape suddenly slammed down behind Alan, drawing quite a bit of undue attention to his cheap and terrible greenscreen effects. “You should come on down to Cornwell Electronics!” proclaimed Mr. Cornwell, as the latter two words swirled into existence over his head. “We’ve got everything you need to start livin’ the modern life you deserve! We got TVs, computers, cables of all shapes an’ sizes...”

 

As the commercial rambled on, showing the man wandering down the aisle of a decidedly homey-looking store, a lone man strode purposefully down the street towards the windows in question. He struck a distinctive figure to anyone who may have been looking. Dark, possibly dyed hair encircled his face -- messy and unkempt at the top, but immaculately styled to a point near his chin. A pair of red-rimmed glasses was stretched across his face, but it did little to hide the large scar over his right eye. He was clad in some kind of white trenchcoat with oversized lapels, accompanied by a bright red tie. And perhaps most disconcertingly, he also wore bright red rubber gloves that stretched halfway to his elbows. The man looked for all the world as if he’d stepped out of some corporate research lab. He approached the store, glanced up at the gleaming neon signage, and stared at the TVs for a moment.

 

“...an’ best of all,” Alan was saying, “Cornwell Electronics is a proud subsidiary of _absolutely no one!_ ” Two large pieces of clipart superimposed onto a black background to either side of Alan -- a bomb and a wrench -- spontaneously burst into flames. “That’s right, folks -- we are independently owned, just like the old days! I’m just as sick of the corporate perpetual money-makin’ machine as you are, so you come to Alan, and your money won’t come within a fifty-mile radius of their bank accounts!” The camera abruptly cut to a side shot of Alan, framing the man in front of a simple suburban home. He jerked his head to the side, grinned, and gave a powerful thumbs-up with a gloved hand. “I guarantee it!” he proclaimed, his declaration supported by bold, over-the-top subtitles.

 

“So get yourself to Cornwell Electronics!” Alan finished, dancing in front of the camera to a jaunty violin tune. “We’re on the corner of Casbah and Crossover in the Badlands District! We got everything you need at a price you can afford, or my name ain’t Alan Cornwell! C’moooon doooown!”

 

The man in the trenchcoat smirked and walked up to the door. It slid open swiftly as he approached it, signalling a soft chime to ring throughout the building. The store was pleasantly lit with a charming cabin-in-the-woods aesthetic, and the faint sounds of acoustic guitar music piped through the store’s loudspeakers. It seemed to be a rather homey place, much more so than one would even think possible from the Badlands District. There was even a little electric fireplace over in the corner of the store that displayed the home entertainment center, which was a very nice touch.

 

There was a circle of counters in the center of the building, one of which bore a cash register. Behind that particular counter, there stood a short, stout man -- the same short, stout man that had been shown in the commercial, right down to his mode of dress. The only difference was that his goggles weren’t glowing red -- a metal shutter was dropped in front of them, rendering him completely invisible.

 

“...Uh huh,” Alan was saying, smiling a faint half-smile. He chuckled softly and rubbed the back of his head with his gloved hand. “Whooh... Yeah, I don’t doubt it. Uh, but... couldja hold that thought? I got... a customer jus’ walked in, I think...” The man in the trenchcoat smiled and silently stalked up to the counter. “Yeah, no, I’d love to. Jus’ not right now. You wait until I get home, an’ then we can pick up where we left off, alright?” He let out a soft chuckle, tinged with... something, and nodded. “Yeah. Five minutes, then I’ll be on my way. ...Alrighty then. See ya at home, Smokey.” He reached up and tapped the side of his goggles with one finger, the shades snapped up -- and he snapped back. “Whoa! Who the...”

 

The man in the trenchcoat chuckled. “Sorry... did I startle you?” he asked, his voice choked by a thick German accent.

 

“...Maybe a little,” Alan replied, placing his gloved hand gently on his chest. “Tweren’t no trouble. I just... don’t react well to people sneakin’ up on me. Welcome to Cornwell Electronics, sir. How can I help you?”

 

The man in the trenchcoat smirked. “Oh, a great many ways, I’m sure,” he said confidently. “You see, I’m hoping to break into the field of cybernetics.”

 

Alan arched an eyebrow at his customer, and the shutter on one half of his goggles raised up slightly. “...Cybernetics?” he repeated. “...Well, if you really got your heart set on buildin’ a cybernetic augmentation in your garage, I guess that’s your prerogative. But I don’t think I stock most of the parts you’re gonna need...”

 

The man in the trenchcoat tilted his head down slightly so that he could look Alan right in the eyes. “You misunderstand. It’s not the parts I’m looking for.”

 

Alan hesitated a moment, then plastered a smile across his face. “Well, what are you lookin’ for, then?” he asked.

 

“I’m looking for someone with the expertise to make sure my little project is completed successfully.” The man in the trenchcoat smirked. “And I believe you’re just the man I’m looking for, Dr. Conagher.”

 

There was silence. The only sounds in the room came from the faint, muted sounds of sound systems on display and the tinny sounds of something resembling country music. Alan glanced over his shoulder, then then other, then reached behind his head and slid his finger across the band of his goggles. In an instant, the shades retreated fully into their hidey-holes, showing two empty, expressionless red circles where Alan’s eyes should have been. “You still talkin’ to me, sir?” he asked.

 

“You’re the only one here,” the trenchcoated man replied. “Ah, but I haven’t introduced myself. How rude of me. My name is Dr. Gustav Heinrich, and I’ve spent a great deal of money trying to find you.”

 

“...And by find me,” Alan replied, crossing his arms, “you mean find Dr. Conagher.” Dr. Heinrich just nodded. “...Well, since you had to go lookin’, I assume you mean Dell Conagher?”

 

“Of course,” Heinrich replied, smiling in a way that was a little more sinister than he intended. “There’s no need to be shy, Herr Doktor. I know it’s you. Besides, we’re both men of science. You can let your guard down around me.”

 

“...Uh...” Alan sighed and slowly shook his head. “I hate to rain on your parade here, sir, but I’m not Dell Conagher. I do get told we look alike sometimes, but... you do know that Dell Conagher is dead, right?”

 

“I’m well aware of that, yes.” Heinrich nodded. “He died five years ago in an unfortunate industrial accident, according to Conagher Machinery and Cybernetics’s official press release. And of course, following his death, his slot as the corporation’s CEO passed to his second-in-command, a famously shy man named... what was his name again?”

 

“Smith,” Alan answered, uncrossing his arms and placing his hands on the counter in front of him. “Blackthorne Smith.”

 

“Ah, of course. Thank you. At any rate, that is the official story,” Heinrich continued. “But it’s not as though a multinational corporation that regularly does billion-dollar deals would have any reason to lie...”

 

Alan sighed heavily and glanced down at his hands. “Okay... look,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, but I’m really not who you say I am. I mean, Dell Conagher was a cyborg, wasn’t he? I ain’t exactly--”

 

Before he could finish that sentence, Dr. Heinrich raised his fist into the air and slammed it down onto Alan’s gloved hand -- and sure enough, the sound of bones snapping rang out over the store. His eyebrows suddenly shot up and he yanked his hand back, gripping wrapping his other palm around the point of impact. “Ooh! Aah ha ha!” He grinned a cringing grin and took a couple of steps back. “...Case in point, Doctor! I think I just broke a metacarpal!”

 

Alan’s eyes went wide, not that Heinrich could tell, and he hesitated a moment. He blinked, glanced down at his own, decidedly not broken hand, and sighed heavily. “...That was just plain rude,” he muttered.

 

“Rude, maybe. But effective. You are a cyborg, sir. There’s no point in denying that now.” Heinrich cringed and shook his hand out. “...Mmnh. That really hurt more than I was expecting it to.”

 

“Are you okay?” Alan asked.

 

“Give me a moment...” Heinrich held his hand up, gripped his broken pinkie finger in one hand, and suddenly snapped it back into position. “Oof... Mm. Yes, I’m fine. My bloodstream is saturated with self-replicating nanosutures, courtesy of Speyrer Medical. It was cheaper than giving me health insurance. Of course, it’s not likely to help me if I actually, you know, get sick... but I’ll take it.” He let out a jovial chuckle at his own joke, then cringed and placed his injured hand on the table. “Anyway, I’ll be perfectly fine in a few moments.”

 

“Alrighty then.” Alan crossed his arms again. “Well, while we wait for those to kick in, I’m gonna give y’all the benefit of the doubt. If I was really Dell Conagher -- and I ain’t sayin’ I am, but if I was -- do you really think I’d be runnin’ a rinky-dink consumer electronics store in the Badlands District, of all places?”

 

“Well, that’s no one’s fault but yours,” Heinrich shot back. “Personally, if I was going to feign my own death, I’d have set myself up in a better city than Neo Teufort. I’d head for The Well, I think, but that’s just me.”

 

“Yeah, The Well would be a nice place to go,” Alan agreed. “They’re a lot closer to the Pipeline than Teufort... but, y’know, I don’t really think I can afford real estate down there. Not on my earnings.”

 

“Hm. I know what you mean,” Heinrich agreed. “Of course, if you were a CEO, you could buy land just about anywhere...”

 

Alan tilted his head back and let out a heavy sigh. “Okay, look. If I just hear you out, let you say whatever you wanna say to Dell, will you get out of my store?”

 

“Of course. Danke schön,” Heinrich replied. He cleared his throat, straightened his spine and placed his fist over his heart. “Now then... what do you know about Speyrer Medical?”

 

“...Well, they’re a biomedical research firm,” Alan answered, cocking his head to the side. “They keep most of America in stock on medicine, and they’ve got hundreds of research labs from here to Neo Las Vegas. And they let you take a sip from their Fountain of Youth, so apparently you work for ‘em.”

 

“Ah... close,” Heinrich chuckled. “Up until very recently, I was working for them. I was a valued employee at one of their facilities in the Thunder Mountains. I was, and for the record I still am, a brilliant scientist. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of making several suggestions that Speyrer couldn’t figure out how to market. That, coupled with a particularly... poorly thought-out experiment of mine...” He took a deep breath, then continued. “...ultimately led the company to the decision that I wasn’t being productive enough to justify the cost of my employment.”

 

“Huh. Sorry to hear that.” Alan didn’t sound sorry at all. “So what, you wanna get your old job back or something?”

“Hardly.” Heinrich scoffed. “Speyrer is an outright toxic working environment. I thought I’d enjoy my time there, but no. I gave five years of my life to that company, and all I have to show for it is some wrinkles, a scar and a suspended medical license. I don’t even have my blueprints any more. Some of my best ideas are locked up in Speyrer’s copyright vault.”

 

“That’s not how intellectual property works,” Alan pointed out. “You can’t slap a copyright on an idea and say ‘That’s mine. Nobody else think of something like this.’ That’s against the law.”

 

“So is hiring private armies to wage a guerilla war in the streets in order to forcibly seize control of public utilities or outright destroy those controlled by your enemy and extend your organization’s influence over key sections of northern New Mexico,” scoffed Heinrich, “but I think we both know the corporations’ status on that.”

 

Alan blinked and rubbed the back of his head. “Fair point... but Speyrer Medical doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the Gravel Wars. That’s a logical fallacy right there. Shouldn’t you bring up something bad that Speyrer Medical did?”

 

“Oh-ho-ho, do you really want to know about the bad things Speyrer Medical did?” Heinrich chuckled. “Seriously, don’t get me started. I have seen some shit. I can’t prove any of it, of course, but about, say... sixty, maybe seventy-five percent of the rumors you hear on the street are true. It’s a good thing clones don’t have even the most basic human rights.”

 

“...On second thought, I don’t think I really wanna know about the bad things Speyrer Medical did,” Alan murmured.

 

“You’re just as smart as they say, Doctor.” Heinrich chuckled. “Speaking of which, I should get back to the point. You see, most of my ideas are property of Speyrer Medical now... but not all of them. I kept one for myself -- my finest work. The one thing that I knew Speyrer Medical would be interested in, I kept for myself. And now I’m going to build it... and I need your help.”

 

Alan hesitated a moment, then closed his mouth. “...What is this idea?” he asked.

 

“Something wondrous,” Heinrich shot back. “Something powerful. A cybernetic implant that could change the way we look at war forever. Trust me -- the corporations are going to be falling over one another to get their hands on this machine. I build it, and I’ll be set for life. But since I don’t have an entire research-and-development team to fall back on any more... I need the support of a fiercely intelligent cybernetic specialist. Someone who’s spent his entire life studying engineering, and has eleven hard science degrees to show for it. Someone who is willing to do whatever it takes to accomplish his goal, whatever that goal may be. And crucially, someone who doesn’t report to a corporate overlord who’ll poison my champagne and steal my ideas the second they’re completed. And that, Dr. Conagher, is where you come in.”

 

Alan didn’t say anything for a few long moments, then sighed. “...Well, you sure know how to spin a yarn, Doc,” he eventually said.

 

“Thank you. I try.” Heinrich reached into his trenchcoat and pulled out a cell phone with a white plastic case. “Tell you what -- I’ll give you my number. If you decide you’re interested in this, give me a call.” Alan hesitated a moment, then sighed, reached into a small pouch on his belt and retrieved his own cell phone. Heinrich smiled and tapped his phone against Alan’s, causing a soft chime to ring out from each of them. “Thank you. That’ll be all, then.” Heinrich turned towards the door and pocketed his phone again, suppressing the urge to laugh. “I hope to speak to you soon, Doctor Conagher.”


	2. Old Friends

Heinrich chuckled softly as he walked down Crossover Lane. “That went well,” he announced to no one in particular. He tried to keep the smile off his face, but of course he couldn’t. Even as a clap of thunder rang out over the city streets and rain began to sprinkle down on his head, he couldn’t help but smile. He was on the fast lane to fortune and glory now. Assuming he could get Conagher on his side -- which, of course, he could -- his future was secured. And he was one step closer to demonstrating his talents to those cowardly fools at Speyrer Medical.

 

He laughed again as he continued walking, although this one was decidedly more sinister than the last. They’d all laughed at his ideas before, true. The neural preservation device, the organic augmentations, the wireless skeletal structure... they’d all laughed at him back then. Speyrer probably wasn’t the best environment for him, now that he thought about it. No one there appreciated his genius. But now that he was a free agent, he could do whatever he wanted. He had no one to report to, and no one could judge him for his ideas. He had complete creative control, and it was a liberating experience.

 

He jabbed the crosswalk button quickly with his finger, took a deep breath and stared up at the crowded, jagged horizon of the city above him. An approaching stormcloud was rolling in from the north, pooling above the massive twin towers that loomed over Neo Teufort’s skyline. Lightning flashed above the tall, boxy form of Reliable Excavation and Demolition’s headquarters, and a few blocks down the road, it did much the same over the sleek, curved silhouette of Builder’s League United. Nature was gathered overhead to loom ominously over both of them. It was a comforting image, somehow. It made Heinrich realize that the corporations, powerful though they may be, weren’t completely invincible. That a particularly resourceful foe... or one with overwhelming power... could overcome them.

 

He donned a sinister smirk at the thought of towers crumbling. “Yes...” he muttered to himself, stroking his thin, pointed beard with one hand and placing the other behind his back. “I’ll make those fools at Speyrer Medical regret firing me... I’ll show them. I’ll show them all...”

 

Thankfully, before he could ride that train of thought to its destination, a familiar voice reached his ears -- the last voice he’d been expecting to hear tonight.

 

“DOCTOR!”

 

Heinrich’s eyes went wide. Incredulously, he blurted out a sudden cry of “What?” as he whirled around -- and sure enough, there was a man barreling down the sidewalk towards him. He was a hefty specimen, to be sure, well-stocked in both muscle and fat at levels that seemed completely at odds with one another. He was clad in comfortable running slacks, a short-sleeved red tee over a formal white button-up, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a simple red tie to complement them. He wore tiny goggles over his tiny eyes, each lens glowing yellow, and his brown hair was shorn to a short, tidy flat-top. All of these things were signs that this man was at least modestly wealthy, and thus was taking a great risk by merely entering the Badlands District -- but thankfully, he had accounted for that. In the ultimate display of dominance, the man was carrying about a hundred bullets that must have been a foot long each in a leather bandolier across his chest, and yet another was tucked behind his ear like a pencil. The thought occurred to Heinrich that that wasn’t technically illegal, but it probably should be.

 

That thought exited his mind quickly, however. There were more pressing manners to attend to. Heinrich’s experience at Speyrer Medical had taught him that when something as big as this man was running at you, you got out of the way. But his experience from before Speyrer Medical told him that that wasn’t necessary at. Heinrich grinned a wide, genuine grin, threw out his arms, and loudly announced to anyone who happened to be present: “Misha!”

 

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Heinrich was up in the air. Misha had simply wrapped his arms around the slimmer man, picked him up off the pavement and begun to twirl him around. “Ha ha! It is you, Doctor!” he announced cheerfully, through a thick Neoviet accent. “It has been too long!”

 

“It has! It... really has!” Heinrich grunted, wrapping his arms around the larger man and slapping the back of his shoulder repeatedly. “I... ngah! Can’t breathe, can’t breathe!”

 

“Oh!” Misha quickly dropped Heinrich, and he stumbled backwards. The larger man grinned a sheepish grin. “I did not realize... Sorry, Doctor.”

 

“It’s fine, it’s... fine. It’s practically... tradition at this point.” Heinrich leaned against the streetlight behind him and stared up into the light, attempting to catch his breath. “Well... It’s great to see you, Misha. I have to say... you are the last man I was... expecting to run into tonight.”

 

“As are you, Gustav!” Misha laughed heartily and crossed his arms. “Where have you been for the last five years?”

 

“I’ve been up... in the Thunder Mountains...” Heinrich took a deep breath and continued. “...in a lab.”

 

“Ohhhh. Big science man?” Misha let out a soft chuckle and grinned. “I am not surprised.”

 

“Gah... I am nothing if not predictable,” Heinrich said, shrugging his shoulders.

 

Misha laughed again and crossed his arms. “Ahhh... Well, it is good to see you, Doctor. You look, eh...” He hesitated, but only for a moment, as he examined the doctor. “...different. Where did you get that scar?”

 

“What, this old thing?” Heinrich chuckled, dragging his finger down his forehead and tracing the scar. “I got it in a lab accident a few months ago. It’s a funny story, actually, but... well, remind me to tell you later.”

 

“I will,” Misha assured him.

 

“Good, good,” Heinrich continued. “And hey, speaking of looking different... am I having a stroke, or are you wearing a tie?”

 

“Huh? Oh, да!” Misha said cheerfully, glancing down and adjusting it with two large, sausage-sized fingers. “This is my work uniform. Clients like it when I dress formal.”

 

Heinrich let out a soft burst of air and leaned back. “What?” he guffawed. “Mikhail Boleslav, a salaryman? Mein Gott... I was only gone for five years! What happened here?” He suddenly swooped forward, grabbed Misha by his lapels and shook the much heavier man as best he could, shrieking with false histrionics. “Who did this to you?”

 

“Hahah! Do not act so surprised, Doctor.” Misha easily pulled out of Heinrich’s grip, reached up and pointed to the skyline overhead. “I am independent security contractor, for men in the towers. I find spies, and I crush them. It is basically the same as my last job, but it pays better.”

 

“Ahhh, there’s the Misha we all know and love,” Heinrich chuckled.

 

“And what about you, Doctor?” Misha asked, placing his hand on Heinrich’s shoulder. “How is your work?”

 

Heinrich’s smile wavered a bit. “Oh, well... it’s been better. I got fired recently.”

 

“Oh.” Misha’s smile vanished. “I am sorry, Doctor.”

 

“Oh, don’t be. It wasn’t your fault,” Heinrich chuckled. “It’s not so bad. It was a miserable job anyway. Besides, I get to head back to the city now!”

 

“And that is good!” Misha stated. “Oh... but you do have place to stay, yes?”

 

“Oh, of course I do,” Heinrich assured him. “I close on an apartment tomorrow, and I’ll be, uh...” He crinkled his brow and hesitated. “...staying in a cheap motel until then.”

 

“Oh. Well, that is good,” Misha replied. “I would have offered that you stay with me, but...”

 

Heinrich chuckled. “That’s very kind of you, Misha, but it’s not necessary. As much as I’d relish the opportunity to see your sisters again, I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.”

 

“I do not doubt that,” Misha chuckled. “So... are you going to need new job, Doctor?”

 

Heinrich blinked and furrowed his brow. “Well... I have a big project in the works, but I might need a little money to tide myself over until that goes through... so, maybe. Why?”

 

“Well, you could work with me!” Misha grinned a grin that seemed too big for his face and slugged Heinrich’s shoulder. “Just like old times, yes? Every good team needs a doctor!”

 

Heinrich chuckled and rotated his shoulder a few times. “Oh-ho-ho... I don’t know, Misha. I’m getting a little old to be in that line of work...” He hesitated a moment, then lifted his hand and stretched one of his gloves further down his arm. “...although, that isn’t to say I haven’t missed it...” He released the glove with a loud snap that echoed through the dark city streets.

 

“Well, you should meet the team before you decide,” Misha suggested. “I play poker with them on Sunday nights, at 7:00.”

 

Heinrich’s eyebrow shot up, and he grinned a powerful grin. “Ooh, gambling with dangerous outlaws? Misha, you know me so well!”

 

“Very good!” Misha grinned. “Go to Resupply Bar and Grill, on Epicenter and Ravelin. There is a bartender called Poopy Joe. Give him code phrase: ‘Can’t crit, so it’s balanced.’ He will know what you mean.”

 

Heinrich smirked. “This isn’t a friendly game, is it, Misha?”

 

Misha let out a short chuckle. “Buy-in is ten thousand dollars.”

 

“I can cover that,” chuckled Heinrich. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

 

“Good! I will see you there!” Misha chuckled and punched Heinrich again. “I am glad we met again, Doctor!”

 

“So am I!” Heinrich replied, nodding curtly and slipping backwards. “I’ll see you on Sunday, my friend!”

 


	3. Up In Smoke

Alan Cornwell was not a happy man. The long walk home had been uneventful. Boring, even. By this point, he knew the Badlands District like the inner workings of his hand. He knew all the turns he had to make to avoid the really bad areas. So, with that knowledge, he’d been able to make it back to his apartment complex unaccosted. And that had given him plenty of time to think. Unfortunately, the extra time to think hadn’t helped him that much.

 

He sighed heavily, taking in the warm, processed air of his complex. It was a lot to take in, and the walk hadn’t been nearly long enough. He came to a stop in front of door 306 and let out a short sigh. He was tense, coiled up like a plastic snake in an alleged can of peanut brittle. People knew where to find him now, and it was not a pleasant feeling. Even with his knowledge of the District’s safe zones, he’d expected someone to jump out at him at any moment.

 

He fumbled with his key, sighed and shook his head. It wasn’t healthy to think like this, he reminded himself. He had nothing to worry about. There was no one out to get him. The people who were out to get him thought he was dead -- and this Dr. Heinrich, whoever he was, wasn’t looking for someone with corporate ties. So he knew, but he probably wouldn’t tell anyone. At least, he probably wouldn’t... But, resolving to think about this more later, Alan finally twisted the key and shoved the door open.

 

Something was different.

 

The room was lit with a soft, pinkish light that hid the cracks in the walls and peeling paint as it washed over them. The sound of a saxophone, a piano, and the gentle pattering of a distant storm filtered softly through the air. It followed quickly by the overwhelming scent of rose petal-scented air freshener, to complement the plastic petals scattered on the floor. The apartment looked like $25-a-night roadside motel, but it’d been done up like a chintzy, $100-a-night honeymoon suite.

 

Alan just... stood there for a moment, taking it all in. He eventually inhaled, remained still for a moment, then let out a heavy, wavering sigh. Under normal circumstances, this would’ve been quite the pleasant surprise, but... no. Not tonight. Tonight, the only thing on his mind was Dr. Heinrich, and what he meant for his security. He couldn’t focus. His hand was shaking. He needed to be somewhere safe. He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. He stepped up to the kitchen table, and sure enough, there was a note there waiting for him.

 

“YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME”

 

Alan let out a heavy sigh of relief, discarded the note and made for the bedroom. Yes, he did. He’d have to figure out a way to let him down gently.

 

The room was very small, with barely enough room for a tiny bed and a nightstand. But somehow, when it was occupied, it seemed to be so much bigger. A tall, broad-shouldered man was kneeling on the bed, one knee up. He had the face of Takeshi Kitano, the body of Arnold Schwarzenegger and the legs of Chuck Norris. A tight leather garment that only qualified as pants on a technicality clung tightly to his waist, leaving less than nothing to the imagination. A bright red fireman’s jacket was draped over his shoulders, and a striped red tie hung loosely down his bare, hairless chest. He tipped his fireman’s helmet and smirked, his eyes twinkling with an emotion that everyone knew, but no one had a name for. “Welcome home,” he purred, already beckoning Alan closer.

 

Alan just stared for a few long moments, taking all this in. Eventually, he squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the fireman sitting on his bed. Any other day, he thought. Any other day. “I, uh... Is there an occasion here I’m forgettin’ about?” he asked, his voice strained.

 

The fireman smirked and placed his hands on his hips. “Do I need an occasion?” he asked, batting his eyes innocently at Alan.

 

“...Well, I guess you don’t, no...” But Alan trailed off quickly. He lapsed into silence, glanced down at the ground, then let out a heavy sigh and just sat down on the edge of the bed.

 

The coy smile vanished from the fireman’s face. “...Uh oh.” He lowered his leg and slowly sat down, his lower lip quivering slightly. “Are you okay, Alan?”

 

“...I dunno, Sachiko. I just...” Alan squeezed his eyes shut, ripped his goggles off and began scrubbing his face with his hands. “I’ve had a long day and I’m tired and cold and a little scared and I just wanna go to bed...”

 

“Oh...” Sachiko said nothing for a few moments, then sighed softly and nodded. “Okay, sweetie.” He gently nuzzled Alan’s shoulder, eliciting a quick shiver from the shorter man. “I’ll go get you some jammies, then. I did the laundry earlier, and I think they’re still warm...”

 

Alan leaned against Sachiko and nodded, closing his eyes. “Okay... thanks, honey...”

 

Sachiko slunk off without another word. Alan let out a heavy sigh and slipped his goggles over his head. So much for letting him down gently. He kicked off his boots, one after the other, and lay down on the bed. It was a long day, and he was tired. And cold, and a little scared. He shrugged off his workman’s vest and tossed it down on the floor, and all the while his mind was still buzzing away. He wanted to lie back and rest his bones, but it was going to be a while before he got to that point. He could just tell.

 

He let out a heavy sigh, unclasped his vest and tossed it aside with a dull, metallic thump. At least he still had Sachiko, he said to himself. He was... manna from heaven in times like this. Sachiko hadn’t done much, but he already felt a little calmer. He didn’t know what he’d do if it weren’t for him. Somehow, he didn’t think he’d be here today if he hadn’t been there. He’d kept Alan sane over the course of the past five years, and he’d kept Sachiko sane in turn. He could be enthusiastic, yes, but sometimes that was what he needed. Not tonight, obviously, but... sometimes.

 

Sure enough, a few moments later, Sachiko slipped back into the room. He’d already pulled on a bright red one-piece silk garment, with a hood and everything. He smiled warmly, closed the bedroom door behind him and handed Alan a slightly smaller one one in a similar shade of red. That was one of the habits he’d picked up from Sachiko in the time they’d been together, and he didn’t mind at all. “Thanks, honey,” he said with a breathless sigh as he continued to undress.

 

“No problem,” Sachiko purred, sitting down beside him and smiling warmly. “So... do you want to tell me about your day?”

 

Alan let out a heavy sigh and slipped his pajamas on, one limb at a time. “...Yeah... don’t mind if I do...” He sighed again, closing his eyes and leaning back. “...Y’see, a man came into the store today...”

 

“Uh oh,” Sachiko remarked, quickly leaning in close. “Was he one of the Crazy Legs?”

 

“No no, nothin’ like that,” Alan responded, a little too quickly. “The Crazy Legs and I have an agreement, remember? We leave each other alone now. It’s just... He was... H-He’s a former corporate researcher. Speyrer Medical kicked him out, apparently. Said his name was Dr. Heinrich...”

 

“...Oh.” Sachiko cocked his head to the side and blinked a couple of times. “...He got... kicked out?”

 

“I don’t know the details,” Alan replied. “But apparently, he got a little too... creative...”

 

“...Oh...” Sachiko shivered and scooted in close to Alan, wrapping his arm gently around his waist. “...Wh-What did he want?”

 

“He, uh...” Alan hesitated for a long moment. He wanted to tell Sachiko about what really happened. He wasn’t stupid, he knew it could help him. Sachiko always had a way of finding the best solution to a complex problem when it needed to be found. But that would involve a lot of things he hadn’t told Sachiko yet -- things he promised himself he’d tell him last week, and the week before that, and the week before that... No. It was too much. He couldn’t do this now. Later, maybe, but not now. He shook his head and shuddered softly. “...it’s complicated,” he eventually settled on.

 

“Complicated how?”

 

“It’s just...” Alan continued his mental gymnastics for a few long moments, then sighed. “...He knew things about me, Sachiko. Things I... haven’t told you. Things I haven’t told anybody...”

 

“You know you can tell me anything,” Sachiko remarked, resting his head on Alan’s shoulder.

 

“I know I can,” Alan murmured, leaning against Sachiko. “It’s just... I’m not ready yet. Nobody is supposed to know... yet. ...I-I don’t know how Dr. Heinrich found out, but... it scared me. If a man like him knows these things...” He shuddered and leaned against Sachiko, eyes shut tight. “...who else does?”

 

Sachiko didn’t say anything for a few long moments, just staring up at Alan. But eventually, he straightened his spine and lifted his head. “...It sounds like you’re in trouble,” he observed.

 

“I might be. I dunno...” Alan let out a deep, shuddering sigh and leaned against Sachiko. “...I feel like it’s all gonna go up in smoke...”

 

“Hey... look at me,” Sachiko murmured. When Alan didn’t move, he hooked his finger under his chin and tilted his head up towards his. “Look at me, Alan...” Sachiko smiled one of those warm, glowing smiles he was so good at and gently ran his hand down Alan’s cheek. “You know I love you, right?”

 

Sachiko’s smile was infectious, and spread quickly. “Of course I do,” Alan shuddered.

 

“Then you know I’ll always be here for you.” Sachiko wrapped his hands around Alan’s waist and pulled his body against his own. “You’ve done a lot for me. I have to return the favor somehow. If anybody wants to hurt you, they’ll have to go through me.”

 

Alan let out a soft chuckle and rested his head against Sachiko’s shoulder. “...Thanks, Smokey,” he murmured. “I can’t tell ya how much I...” But Alan trailed off quickly. He blinked a couple of times, lifted his head again and sniffed pensively at the air. “...do you smell smoke?”

 

No sooner than the words were out of his mouth, there came three sharp raps at the door.

 

“Doctor Conagher... might I have a word with you?”

 


	4. Popping In Unannounced

The room fell silent. Neither Alan nor Sachiko dared to move, speak, or even breathe for a few long moments. The two of them slowly turned to face one another, sending flashes of information between their eyes. Eventually, Alan nodded, swallowed and placed his hand on Sachiko’s cheek. “...Sachiko, it’s gonna be alright,” he whispered. “Stay behind me, okay? I’ll take care of this...”

 

Sachiko just nodded. “Okay...” he whispered back. He shuddered softly and gently nuzzled Alan’s neck. “Be careful...”

 

“You know me, honey, I’m always careful...” Alan leaned forward and gently kissed Sachiko’s forehead, then stood up and glared menacingly at the door. “Who are you?” he asked.

 

“I am no one,” replied the man on the other side.

 

“What are you doing in my house?”

 

“This isn’t a house. It’s barely an apartment. Not that I’m judging you, of course.”

 

“You didn’t answer my question.”

 

“I have some questions to ask you, Doctor.”

 

Alan cringed and glanced over his shoulder briefly. He only caught the strange look Sachiko was giving him for a second or two, but that was all he needed. He shuddered and quickly looked back to the door. “What’re you talking about?” he asked, his voice wavering more than a little.

 

The voice on the other side of the door let out a soft chuckle. “By which I mean, of course, I have some questions to ask the doctor.”

 

Alan swallowed. “...uh...” He clenched his hand into a fist, then unclenched it. “I... uh... I-If I just hear you out, let you say whatever you wanna say to the doctor, will you get out of my house?”

 

“But of course,” the man replied. “Just step out of that room first, won’t you? I’d much prefer to have this conversation face to face. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you.”

 

Alan let out a long, heavy sigh and nodded his head. “...Okay,” he murmured. He looked over at Sachiko, closed his eyes and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Stay behind me, okay? I’ll... whatever he wants, I’ll handle this.”

 

“Okay,” Sachiko responded, quickly stepping up behind him. “Just, uh... here, let me get that for you.” He quickly reached down and quickly pulled a zipper up Alan’s back.

 

Alan blinked. “Oh. Uh... I guess I forgot about that. Much obliged...” He let out a soft chuckle, then nodded and opened the door.

 

Their guest was a thin, spindly man. He was sitting at the kitchen table like he owned the place -- slouched over slightly, one elbow resting on the table, a cigarette held loosely between two fingers, like a frustrated parole officer come for another surprise visit. Of course, he didn’t dress like a parole officer. He was dressed like... well... Alan didn’t know exactly what he was dressed like, but whatever it was, it was something with a lot of money to throw around. He wore red pinstripe pants and some kind of fancy, matching dress coat with golden lapels, a high collar and a couple of frilly epaulettes. That would’ve been odd and disconcerting enough on its own, but this was before he’d gotten to the man’s face. He wore a dull red ski mask to disguise himself, but he also wore a black eye patch -- underneath the mask, no less -- that would certainly narrow him down in a lineup. On top of that, he wore a black-and-red cavalier cap with a goddamn ostrich feather tucked into its brow. And just to completely throw away any remote possibility that he could slip into a crowd unnoticed, orange and purple lights swirled in ephemeral circles around his head.

 

Alan had hoped never to see a hat like that one again.

 

Once he fought back the multiple waves of invading memories, Alan leaned his head back and sighed heavily. “...Aw, shhhhhhucks,” he muttered to himself. Eventually, he lowered his head again and looked his guest right in the eye. “You’re with the company, aren’t you?”

 

“I’m afraid not,” he replied, “although you’re not the first person to think that.”

 

Alan didn’t say anything for a few moments. “...Who are you, then?”

 

“As I said, I’m no one.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” Sachiko interjected, glaring pointedly at their guest. “No one who’s no one wears an Unusual.”

 

“Well, in that regard, I am someone,” the guest agreed, “but no one you need to be concerned about.”

 

“Have you got a name, No One?” Alan asked. “Or are you gonna gouge out my eye while I’m sleeping?”

 

“Technically, no. I don’t have a name,” the guest replied. He took a quick drag from his cigarette, then continued. “But some have deemed fit to call me The Spy.”

 

Alan shot him a look. “...It’s 2068. There’s a lotta spies in the world.”

 

“My enemies seem to think that I am the definitive one.” The Spy took another deep breath of smoke. “Personally, I’ve never truly cared for the moniker. There is a serial killer still at large called The Closer of the Gate... and yet, I am simply The Spy. It’s dull and uncreative, but it’s the name that stuck with me. I suppose you’re a bit luckier than me in that regard, Doctor... seeing as how you got to choose.” Alan flinched. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Sit, please. Would either of you care for a cigarette?”

 

“I don’t smoke,” Sachiko grumbled, slowly stepping up to the table.

 

Alan nodded, quickly following after him. “Me neither. See, we, uh...” He paused for a moment. “...we have rules about fire in this house.”

 

“I see.” The Spy shrugged and took another drag from his cigarette. “Well, it’s no trouble, then. I just thought I’d offer.”

 

“I appreciate that.” Alan didn’t sound appreciative at all. “So... you have questions. I...” He looked over at Sachiko before continuing. “...apparently have answers. Can we get this over with?”

 

“Very well.” The Spy looked Alan right in the eyes. “I want to know about Blackthorne Smith.”

 

Alan fell silent. He opened his mouth to reply, closed it, opened it, closed it, then opened it again. All that came out was a dull, weak croaking noise. Eventually, he worked up the energy to turn his head and face Sachiko. “...Do you think you could give us some privacy here?”

 

“No.”

 

Alan blinked. “...Wh-What?”

 

“I said no.” Sachiko crossed his arms and looked Alan right in the eyes. “This man broke into our house, and I don’t think he’ll leave until you tell him something you can’t possibly know. I’m not leaving you alone with him. What if he hurts you?”

 

Alan just shrunk further into his seat. _It’s time,_ said a quiet little voice in his head. “...okay... yeah, fine...”

 

“Whenever you’re ready,” prompted the Spy.

 

Alan let out a heavy sigh, then nodded. “Alrighty then,” he croaked, barely lifting his head. “Blackthorne Smith. What about him?”

 

“Start at the beginning, Doctor. What type of man is he?”

 

Alan groaned softly. “...Well... I don’t really know. He never talked about himself. It was all business with him. I... do remember what he looks like, though, if that helps...”

 

“By all means.”

 

Alan took a long, shaky breath. “He’s... British, I think. Judgin’ by the accent. He’s pretty old... like... mid-seventies, maybe early eighties? Oh, he’s auged up a little, too. Hooked himself up with a fancy cyber-spine. It’s, uh... a little bulky, but he’s still up and kickin’, I assume it gets the job done. ‘S either custom, or he picked it up at an antique shop somewhere. Never seen anythin’ like it, really.”

 

“I see,” the Spy said. “Do you know anything about his business dealings?”

 

“Not a damn thing,” Alan continued. “I mean, I only ever saw the man in person once. Usually, it was... phone calls... messenger relay... holoconferences where his recorder was the only one switched off... that kinda thing. He’s real darn secretive, is the point I’m tryin’ to make. He never said more than ‘e needed to. I don’t think his momma even knows his birthday. So no, I don’t know a damn thing about his personal finances.”

 

The Spy just stared silently at Alan for a moment. “...And you’re sure about that?” he eventually said.

 

“Does he sound like the kinda man who talks openly about his finances?”

 

“...I see.” The Spy reached into the pocket of his jacket and retrieved a small, innocuous-looking piece of pink plastic. It wasn’t until he began twirling it in his hand that Alan realized it was actually an ornate butterfly knife -- one that, clearly, the Spy knew how to use. After a few moments of indulgent knife tricks, the Spy took a quick puff from his cigarette and simply said “I suppose the name Tobor Holdings, LLC means nothing to you, then.”

 

Alan stared at the knife for a few moments, then suddenly ripped his gaze away. “...Uh... no, never heard of ‘em. With a name like that, though... what, are they headquartered in the New Soviet Republic, or somethin’?”

 

“They’re a shell company. Common sense, at least, says they’re owned and operated by our friend Blackthorne. The GDP of a small nation flows through Tobor Holdings. There is a paper trail, of course, but it’s practically non-Euclidean. If any of this starts sounding familiar, feel free to chime in.” Alan cringed. “As you may have deduced, I believe Blackthorne is up to something. The question is what. And seeing as how you’ve had such a close working relationship with the man... you seem like the right place to start.”

 

Alan gnawed on his lower lip for a moment, then shook his head. “...Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to disagree with you there. Like I said, I’ve never heard of Tobor Holdings.”

 

“Well, that’s disappointing.” Without taking his eyes off Alan, the Spy began to twirl his knife in his hand again. It danced along his hand with skill and grace that seemed uncanny... barely human. “Of course, I’m sure you’ve already deduced what will happen if you lie to me, Doctor?”

 

“Y-Yeah,” Alan replied through a faint whimper, “but I’ve already told you everything I know.”

 

The Spy took a quick puff from his cigarette and nodded. “Very well,” he said, swinging his knife closed and tucking it back into his jacket pocket. “I can think of no further questions to ask you.”

 

Alan blinked and leaned back in his seat. “...Wh... That was it? You broke into my house for that?”

 

“I broke into your house to demonstrate that I could,” the Spy replied, standing up. “Having said that, if my investigation leads me back to you, I won’t hesitate to pay you a visit. And, of course, should I discover you’ve been lying to me...” A faint smirk crossed his face for a fraction of a second, after which he simply raised his arm to check his watch. “...well, you’re an intelligent man. I’m sure you can guess.” He pressed a button on his watch, and with the sound of a great gust of wind, he slowly faded out of existence. A set of footsteps slowly receded into the distance, and the apartment door opened and shut.

 

There was silence. For a few long moments, neither of the two remaining men spoke a word. Alan, for his part, slumped over and rested his head on the table, letting out a long, shuddering sigh.

 

Sachiko, meanwhile, stood up. He smiled a beaming smile, walked over behind Alan and began rubbing his shoulders. “You did great,” he said. “I think he bought it.”

 

Alan blinked, his head suddenly jerking upwards. “H... He what?”

 

“He believed you, silly!” Sachiko giggled and squeezed Alan’s shoulders. “Can you believe that man actually thought you were Dell Conagher?”

 

Alan opened his mouth to reply, but he didn’t have time to get any words out. His neck wobbled, then slammed downwards. He released a low moan that swept swiftly upwards into a mighty yell, and from there swooped back down into gut-wrenching sobs.

 

“Oh, no no no! Alan, don’t cry!” Sachiko quickly pulled his chair over next to Alan’s, sat down upon it and wrapped his arms around him. Alan returned the gesture after a moment, burying his face in his shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s okay... Shhhh...” Sachiko whispered, slowly stroking Alan’s back. “It’s okay... Just tell me what’s wrong...”

 

Alan didn’t say anything. He just kept crying, which gave Sachiko plenty of time to think. And after a few moments, slowly but surely, that began to show on his face. “...Alan?” he said slowly, in an uncharacteristically low voice. “Tell me what’s wrong.”


	5. A Loving Spoonful

In the very darkest corner of the Badlands District, which was saying a lot, there stood the ruins of a civic center. It had almost burned down ages ago, but -- in what most of the locals attribute to nothing short of divine intervention -- the fire department managed to get to the scene in time to prevent its total destruction. Of course, it was slated to be demolished a few weeks after the fire, but lightning never strikes the same place twice. No one minded that the building was still there -- for after all, as a wise man once said, the street finds its own uses for things.

 

Sachiko got out of his car and stumbled slowly away. He pounded his fist on the hood, still sniffling, then slowly started moving again. The area didn’t have a parking lot, but there was a bridge nearby that was close enough. There were enough abandoned wrecks under there that a working one could slip by undetected, sometimes. Sachiko would have to risk it. He’d never been through here with a car before.

 

Wiping his eyes on his jacket sleeve, Sachiko stumbled down the street. He’d been through here before. He knew these streets well. They hadn’t changed a bit in three years. As his destination loomed in front of him, the memories started creeping back into his mind. He beat them back as soon as they came, like a game of subconscious whack-a-mole. He didn’t need this, he reminded himself. It was the last thing he needed, he didn’t need it, he didn’t even want it, that wasn’t true at all and he knew it. He needed to calm down, and maybe he could do that if he just tried it again, and maybe it wouldn’t go as badly this time, but he didn’t want to, but he needed to, but--

 

He shoved the door open before he could get any further, and his brain was knocked violently off-balance. The stench of caked-on vomit, some subspecies of feces and the faintest hint of long-dead sperm rushed out to meet him like an excitable lapdog. He turned aside, coughed once, then slowly stepped inside. The place was... well, of course it was in bad shape. It’d been everything from a homeless shelter to a gang hideout to, once, an impromptu brothel. That had been an interesting weekend. But surprisingly, it was in about the same level of bad shape as it was before he left. He just hoped it hadn’t changed functions again while he’d been away. He held his breath and quickly stepped inside.

 

The place had changed, somehow. It felt... darker. Stiller. Emptier, maybe. Sachiko slowly stepped inside, stepping over upturned nails as he spotted them. He wandered through the building, searching for a staircase that was still functional. If the place still functioned like he remembered, he needed to get to the second floor. A right turn here, a left turn there, a right, a left, another left... the staircase was gone. It must have finally collapsed at some point. The rubble that had been the staircase once had been shoved a few yards away so that a rickety steel ladder could be set up in its place. Sachiko stared at it for a few moments, then sighed and slowly climbed up it. He didn’t have anything to lose, he supposed.

 

Once he got to the second floor, it was a quick jaunt down the hallway and off to the left. There was a surprising new addition to the walk there: denizens. Two women, a blonde and a redhead, were propped up against the wall, passionately and shamelessly sucking tongues. They looked as though they might have been beautiful once, a long time ago. But now, with all their pockmarks, scars and loose patches of skin, they looked as though he’d walked during the early stages of some kind of transformation ritual. The blonde had a series of grotesque lumps on her back that were visible even from this distance, and the redhead looked to be in the early stages of jaundice. It was didn’t really matter to Sachiko for a variety of reasons, but still... it was a shame. He wasn’t sure if what he was doing was a bigger shame. Probably not.

 

After a few moments, he slowly walked down the hall towards the two women and wiped his eyes again. “...Um, excuse me,” he muttered, clearing his throat softly and glancing away.

 

The women slowly pulled apart, and the blonde blearily turned to look at Sachiko. “Yeah?” she said, slowly wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

 

Sachiko hesitated for a moment, sniffed and wiped his eyes again. “Um... Do you know if Barry still works here?” he mumbled.

 

The blonde woman blinked and arched an eyebrow at him. “What?”

 

“I said, do you know if Barry still works here?”

 

The blonde leaned forward and squinted slightly. “You’re mumbling, good sir. I can’t understand what you’re--”

 

Sachiko let out a choking sob and stomped his foot. “Look, I need a hit, goddammit! Where’s Barry?”

 

“Ohhhhh! Okay, now I can hear you!” The blonde let out an airheaded giggle and pointed down the hall. “He’s in the Banquet Hall! Turn left at the end of this hall, and he’ll be in the third room on the left.”

 

Right... exactly where he was last time. Sachiko nodded and stumbled off. “Right... thanks,” he muttered.

 

“No problem!” the blonde laughed, cheerfully waving goodbye. “Good luck on your quest!”

 

Yeah... okay. It was a pretty shit quest, but whatever. The woman’s words rattled around in his head and rung a depressingly familiar tune. It only made him sadder, and that only made him want it more. He hadn’t realized how badly he needed this until he’d said it out loud. But now that he had, well, it was the only conclusion that made sense. So off he went -- down the hall, left, third door on the left. And there it was, just like he remembered.

 

The room smelled considerably better than it had last time he was here, which was nice. Sachiko couldn’t spot any of the old regulars from his day, which wasn’t as nice. The bar looked like it’d been cleaned up and repaired, and they’d even sprung for some more stools. The whir of a portable generator filtered into the room from somewhere, and a couple of lamps gave the place a surprising amount of light. Sachiko wasn’t expecting the place to be the same, but he wasn’t expecting it to be this different, and he definitely wasn’t expecting it to be... nicer. In fact, there was really only one constant from Sachiko’s old time here: the fat white street punk in the back, stooped over behind the bar. He wore a loose-fitting pink vest over his pale, flabby torso, his bleached-white hair, interspersed with the familiar pink streaks, was sculpted into an impressive mohawk, and his face was bent downwards into a permanent scowl. He didn’t look like he’d aged a day in three years.

 

“No, that’s what I’ve been saying,” he was saying to a similarly dressed (but much skinnier) punk at the bar. “The bitch is cheating on me. And as soon as that PI comes back with the doxx results, I can prove it and throw her ass to the curb. Hell, I should’ve done this months ago.”

 

Yep... same old Barry. Sachiko sniffled and slowly shuffled up to the bar, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “...um... hi, Barry...” he mumbled, staring intently at his shoes.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be with you in a...” Barry glanced up halfway through his sentence and was suddenly ground to a halt. He stared at Sachiko for a moment, then glared intently at his pink-vested friend. “Fedris, get up. Sachiko needs your seat.”

 

Barry’s colleague waved his hand dismissively and rolled his eyes. “Oh, to hell with you, Loomis. Surely you don’t think I’m stupid enough to fall for that again, do you?”

 

Barry suddenly pulled an empty bottle of traditional Scottish apple-flavored paint thinner from God-Knows-Where and smashed it over the bar as hard as he could. “Listen here, shitstain,” he snarled, holding the bottle inches away from his friend’s face. “First of all, I’ve been meaning to tell you that I don’t like it when you call me Loomis. It’s Mr. Corona to you. Secondly... I don’t think you heard me. Sachiko. Needs. Your. Seat.”

 

It didn’t take a genius to know that Barry’s colleague was surprised by this. His eyes darted between Barry, the bottle, Barry, the bottle, and then he finally turned around. He looked scared as he was turning around, but when he finally saw Sachiko standing there, the bottom visibly dropped out of his stomach. “...Oh... no,” he murmured. He swallowed, then quickly stood up and pressed himself against the wall. “I, uh... Of course. I just... uh... ahem. Are we cool? ...Yes? Good. In that case, I bid you farewell.” He sidled past Sachiko quickly, and then darted out of the room.

 

Sachiko sniffled again, then slowly walked up to the bar and sat down. “...Thanks, Barry,” he muttered.

 

“No problem, Satch,” Barry said, quickly dropping the bottle. “...Man... you look like shit. What happened to you?”

 

Sachiko sniffled. “I don’t want to talk about it. Just give me the usual.”

 

Barry blinked. “...Straight to the usual, huh? Okay, then. So long as you’ve got the money, that’ll be fine.”

 

Sachiko reached into the pocket of his jacket, fished around for a few minutes, and came out with a wad full of bills. “Here. Take it. I don’t even care any more.”

 

“Ah. Hard currency. That’ll do nicely.” Barry pocketed the cash quickly and put on an obnoxious and wholly inaccurate Scottish accent. Would sir care for a starter? Some garlic bread, perhaps?”

 

Sachiko sniffed loudly and limply waved his hand in the air. “N... No, thank you. I’ll proceed directly to the intravenous injection of hard drugs, please.”

 

“Heheh. I never get tired of that,” Barry sneered. “Alright, I’ll go get your toke, then.”

 

“N-No, I’m serious.”

 

Barry stopped in his tracks, lowered his hand, and slowly turned around. “...Wait, really? You... want to inject?”

 

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

 

Barry hesitated a moment, then shrugged and scrounged around under the bar for a moment. “Alright. You’re the customer.” After a few moments, he came back up with a small syringe filled with orange liquid. “Heh... Let it never be said that Sachiko Kagutsuchi backs down from a challenge.”

 

Sachiko let out a quiet sob and bent over the bar. “...A-Actually, it’s... it’s Cornwell now...”

 

Barry flicked the syringe twice and squirted a bit of fluid out of it. “Oh, go figure. Wasn’t an immigration thing, was it?”

 

“No, I... I got married...”

 

“Hm. Mazel tov. Roll up your sleeve, big spender.” Sachiko did so, and Barry quickly produced a strip of elastic from somewhere. “So, who’s the lucky guy?”

 

“His name’s... H... Oh, God.” Sachiko gasped and let out another sigh, clenching his hand into a fist.

 

“Uh... Oh. Okay, sounds like you’ve got bigger problems than I thought. Maybe you should talk to a real bartender about it.” Barry rolled his eyes, tied the plastic around Sachiko’s arm and began slapping the crook of his elbow. “Meanwhile, let’s just stick to drugs. Now... you’re sure you can handle this, right? I mean, no offense, but you’re kind of a lightweight, and... well... you remember what happened last time, with Fedris, and that was just a couple of tokes and...” Barry stifled a chuckle. “What I’m getting at is, Pyrovision’s a hell of a drug.”

 

Sachiko sniffed again, wiping his eyes. “That was four years ago. I’ll... I’ll be fine...”

 

“Alright, if you say so.” Barry shrugged and set the syringe on the bar in front of him. “Wanna do the honors?”

 

Sachiko cringed, still sniffling. “N-No... No, not really. I don’t like needles. Um... Could you...?”

 

“Yeah, sure. No problem. But before I put you in, I need to warn you... try not to get too crazy, man. Sometimes, y'know... you scare people.”

 

Sachiko opened his mouth to reply, but the needle pressed into him before he could get a chance to do so. He felt a sharp pain, then a cold jolt of liquid ran through his arm. His eyes shot up, his mouth dropped open, and his head tilted back. He felt his stool slowly drift down into the floor. He was falling through a tunnel -- no, two tunnels. Two tunnels that overlapped, like a Venn Diagram. So really just one tunnel. A deck of cards flapped past his head two at a time. A shark and a car flew through the abyss, having an intense swordfight in midair. A little girl in a blue dress tumbled head over heels through the abyss. This was different. He’d been high before, but not like this. Never like this. This was stronger... and it scared him.

 

And yet...

 

          He felt...

 

                    he felt

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

magic


	6. Meet The Team

The hidden basement of the Resupply Bar and Grill, accessible only by a hidden door behind the bar, was a surprisingly pleasant place. When most people think of hidden rooms deep underground, where bloodthirsty mercenaries went to relax between death-defying missions, they think of either a dingy, half-flooded cavern of a room where the rats are big enough to bartend or a nightclub with a weekly orgy. The Resupply had opted for something a bit less stereotypical. It was covered with white tile, lit with cheery fluorescents, a few pin-up calendars were scattered around the walls... all in all, it was much more homey than you’d expect a hidden base to be -- up to and including its patrons. A few small groups of colorful characters, each one looking as though they’d stepped out of a different hyper-violent Tex Avery cartoon, were scattered around the room -- singing, dancing, playing cards, and discussing what amounted to business for them.

 

Dr. Heinrich had never been in this particular establishment before, but he knew the type. He’d been in several safe houses like this one before he started working for Speyrer. And this, he felt, was one of the nicer ones. It seemed like a breezy, relaxed establishment with a strong community that was willing to support itself -- the kind of place where everybody knows your codename. He quickly walked through the room, examining each new face as he passed them. A creatively scarred Korean-American and a topless Indian woman stood in the corner, playing a game of darts with Bowie knives. A Native American man with surgically pointed ears sat in the corner, cleaning an assault rifle and muttering to himself in some esoteric dialect of Italian. A vaguely European-looking woman in neon-green lederhosen danced around a punching bag, carrying herself in a way that suggested a boxer’s upbringing.

 

“Yes,” Dr. Heinrich said to himself, “I think I’m going to like it here.”

 

As Dr. Heinrich kept wandering through the room, he eventually heard a familiar voice in the back. Three of the room’s denizens were sharing a table in a far-flung corner of the room, Misha among them, and two of those three were singing a rousing drinking song.

 

“...for bombs and guns, and so much more, we celebrate the joys of waaar!”

 

Dr. Heinrich laughed softly and applauded. “Couldn’t have put it better myself!”

 

Misha, still wearing his bandolier, swung his head around to face the new arrival. “Ah, Doctor! Glad you could make it! You are...” Misha hesitated a moment, and arched an eyebrow at Heinrich. “Are you wearing the same clothes as yesterday?”

 

“I’ve been wearing the same clothes for five years,” Heinrich answered. “Forgive me if it takes a few days to break the habit.”

 

“Huh. Remind me not to send resumé to Speyrer.” Misha clapped Heinrich on the shoulder and looked to his colleagues. “Everyone, this is the street surgeon I was telling you about!”

 

A scrawny Hispanic man at the far end of the table laughed softly and pointed to Dr. Heinrich, thumb up. “He-heeeeey, the doctor is in! Fresh meat, ‘ey?”

 

“Well, I’m not exactly new to the game,” Dr. Heinrich chuckled, pulling up a chair and sitting down, “but it is my first time working with the two of you. So effectively, yes.”

 

“Good stuuuff. Good stuff, buddy.” He kicked his feet up onto the table, revealing an ostentatious pair of cowboy boots, and gnawed on his toothpick a bit more. “Well, we oughta introduce ourselves, then, eh? They call me Libro Del Fuego, or just Del Fuego for short. Demolitions. The motormouth over ‘ere,” he continued, gesturing to a flawlessly bearded white man with coke-bottle glasses who hadn’t yet spoken a word, “is The Player. Multi-specialty, and usually the getaway driver. An’ Heavy you’ve already met.”

 

“Indeed I have,” Dr. Heinrich chuckled. “Do we need to pick a codename for me before we get started, or can we do that later?”

 

“Enh. Couldn’t hurt.” With a twinkle in his eye, Del Fuego gestured to Misha... or Heavy, apparently. “You’ve known ‘im the longest, big guy. Whadda you think?”

 

“In the old days, before he got a real job,” Heavy replied, “we just called him Medic.”

 

Dr. Heinrich considered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Ja... no need to rock the boat now,” he chuckled. “Medic works.”

 

“Medic it is!” Del Fuego cackled, rubbing his hands together like an evil mastermind. “Okay. So now that we’ve got the introductions outta the way --” He produced a deck of cards from somewhere and tossed it onto the table. “-- let’s play some freakin’ poker, yeah?”

 

“Да.” Heavy reached down and came back up with a briefcase. “Blinds start at 100/200. I deal first, and we go clockwise from there. Medic, you are big blind. Del Fuego, small blind. Blinds also go around clockwise, and we raise them every four hands.”

 

“And the first guy to get knocked out buys cheese fries!” Del Fuego added.

 

“This is also true.” Heavy opened the briefcase and handed each member of the party a small pile of brightly colored chips. “Ante up.” One by one, each of the mercenaries tossed a credstick into the center of the table. “Okay,” Heavy sneered, grabbing the cards and slipping them out of the deck. “Let us fight, man versus tiny baby man.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Four hands later, Heavy was out of chips.

 

“Ohhhhhh! Isn’t that unfortunate?” Medic cackled, scooping the pot in towards himself.

 

“...It...” Heavy stared blankly at his hands for a few moments. “I... Already? That was... Doctor, how did you do that?”

 

“I’ve been in nine firefights with you, my friend,” Heinrich snorted. “I know how you behave under pressure.”

 

“...Yes, I see that now,” Heavy replied. “Heh. Well. Blinds are 200/400.” Heavy stood up and clapped Medic on the back. “I will get those fries. And next time, I will not let my guard down.”

 

“Good idea,” Medic agreed. “We’ll be here.” As Heavy lumbered slowly out of the room, Medic tossed his cards in to the center of the table. “Okay. So, if he’s out, that means it’s Player’s turn to deal, right?”

 

Del Fuego and the Player just sat there, staring blankly at Medic.

 

“...What?” Medic arched an eyebrow at each of them in turn. “Is it not Player’s turn?”

 

“...Y’know, Medic,” Del Fuego remarked, squinting softly. “Heavy is somethin’ of a local card shark.”

 

Medic blinked and leaned back. “Oh, is that so?” he asked. “Heh... he was just learning to play when I knew him. Go figure.”

 

“Well, nowadays, he’s really good,” Del Fuego replied. “He can beat anybody in this room, easy. An’ ‘e has. I mean, Player gives him a run for his money sometimes, but he’s the best hand in the room. Hardly anybody knocks him out, an’ nobody -- I mean NOBODY -- knocks ‘im out before the blinds go up.”

 

Medic said nothing for a few moments. “...Er... well, then.” He shrugged and chuckled softly. “Beginner’s luck?”

 

“There isn’t enough in the world,” Del Fuego said, standing up. “So, I’m gonna cut to the chase, Doc. This is the part where I say you’re a cheatin’ bastard an’ we start a barfight that spreads across the whole room.”

 

Medic blinked and stared up at Del Fuego. “...Well, uh... how... kind of you to warn me?”

 

“Don’t mention it,” Del Fuego chuckled. “Honestly, I was just lookin’ for a reason. I wanna fightcha, Doc. See if you’re as good as they say. Well, as Heavy says, but y’know what I mean. I just didn’t think I’d have an excuse this soon.”

 

“Is this standard procedure around here?” Medic asked.

 

“It is when yer dealin’ with me.”

 

“Fair enough.” Medic glanced over to the player, who was just glancing between them. “Player, do you mind if Del Fuego and I beat the shit out of each other?”

 

The Player shrugged.

 

“Good,” Medic replied, standing up. “Now, then. My last good barfight was... oh, six years ago now. I might be a little rusty.”

 

“Hey, don’ worry about it, buddy,” Del Fuego replied. “This stuff is like ridin’ a bike. Ya never really forget.”

 

“I certainly hope so,” Medic remarked. “Any preference for weapons? Fists, bludgeons, blades... What’d you have in mind?”

 

“Better stick to fists,” Del Fuego said quickly. “Heavy’s got a big corporate payday lined up for us soon, an’ it sounds like the kinda thing we need t’ be in top condition for. Can’t go around stabbin’ each other before the big job.”

 

“Good. I’m glad to know that,” Medic said, nodding. “Of course, I should mention, I just got off some legitimate employment with Speyrer Medical. My bloodstream is saturated with self-replicating nanosutures, which... well, in layman’s terms, I have a healing factor. In fact, see this finger?” he added, waving his pinkie at Del Fuego. “This finger was broken yesterday, and now it’s good as new.” He smirked and crossed his arms. “I suppose what I’m saying is, you don’t have to go easy on me.”

 

“Good stuuuff. Good stuff, buddy.” Del Fuego chuckled, shook out his arms, and began bouncing on his heels. “You don’t need t’ go easy on me, either, since I’m actually--” He stopped himself in his tracks, laughed again, and shrugged. “Well, let’s jus’ say I don’t bruise easy. Say, Player, wanna count us off?”

 

The Player nodded, adjusted his glasses and stood up. He threw out his hand and began to silently count them off on his fingers, like a referree. Three, two, one... and then karate-chopped the air, giving them the signal to start.

 

As soon as the Player’s hand went down, Del Fuego darted to the right, around the table, and raised his fist into the air. “YOU CHEATIN’ BASTARD!” he screamed. “I’M GONNA BLAST YER FRIGGIN’ HEAD OFF!”

 

“HORRIDO!” Medic shot back.

 

The two men lunged for each other, screaming at the top of their lungs. Del Fuego got the first punch in -- a wild haymaker to the head -- but Medic easily ducked under it and countered with a jab to the stomach. Del Fuego stumbled back, arms swinging wildly through the air, and Medic seized his opportunity. He charged forward with wild abandon, delivering punch after punch. Del Fuego tried to block, but he couldn’t counter the severity and speed of Medic’s assault. Punch after punch after punch landed on Del Fuego’s chest and face.

 

It took Medic a few minutes to realize he wasn’t actually making any attempt to block them. When he realized that, he stopped and stared, confused, at Del Fuego for a few moments. He examined Del Fuego, and realized that he was still wearing the same stupid grin he’d been wearing at the start of the fight. Confused, Medic delivered a couple of quick jabs to his face. He took each of them in stride, making no indication that he’d even felt them. In a final act of desperation, Medic reached up for one last blow. And then, finally, Del Fuego blocked his attack.

 

Del Fuego’s hand shot up with preternatural speed and caught Medic’s fist. He squeezed his hand with a sickening crunch and slowly wrenched his hand back towards Medic. Medic shrieked in pain squeezed his eyes shut, letting his knees go weak. And then the counter-attack started. Del Fuego punched him in the face, cackling like a madman. Then he punched him again, and again, and then he casually plucked Medic’s goggles off his face. “Oooh, that’s freakin’ badass,” he remarked. “Where’d you get that scar, man?”

 

“...It’s a long story,” Medic groaned, slowly opening his eyes. “Remind me to tell you some-- What?”

 

As Medic stared up at Del Fuego, kneeling before him, he saw... something. Del Fuego had changed. A flash of uncanny green light around his fist, a sickening grin filled with rows of glimmering fangs, and his eyes... his eyes...

 

...and then he punched him in the face again, and he completely lost his train of thought. Medic couldn’t really do anything in this situation. Del Fuego was just too fast. He just kept punching him and punching him. He heard his own voice in the distance, shouting uncle. The light began to fade. Del Fuego was... cackling maniacally, blood flying in all directions from his knuckles... and then, finally, relief. The Native American man and the Indian woman were hauling Del Fuego away As Medic’s vision faded, the last thing he saw was Heavy charging in, bellowing... something at the top of his lungs, only to slam his fist into Del Fuego’s stomach.

 

“Ha ha... Ve did it, Kamerad...” Medic heard himself saying, just before he passed out.

 


	7. Crazy Legs

Alan was angry. He was very angry, in fact. He hadn’t been this angry in a long time. Something in the back of his mind was telling him that he should take a moment to calm down. He really wished it would shut up. Besides, he was here already. It’d just be a waste of time if he turned back now. He didn’t like this part of the Badlands District. It smelled awful, and there was always the risk of a firefight. Not to mention, the old civic center was just a few blocks away... but that wasn’t why he was here.

 

No, he was here to break a completely different set of laws.

 

He strode confidently up to a metal door and pounded his metal fist on it. Three resounding CLANGs rang out over the abandoned streets. “Open up! I know you’re in there!”

 

A tiny metal porthole slid open, and a pair of dark sunglasses stared out of them. “Yo, Alan. Good to see ya. What’s the password, chummer?”

 

CLANG. “The password is, ‘It’s Alan! Let me in!’”

 

“Hey, c’mon, man. You know that’s not how this works,” the sunglasses shot back. “You gotta give me the password. We got RULES around here, man.”

 

“C’mon, Hopper. You know me.” Alan gritted his teeth and crossed his arms. “Let’s cut the bull this time, alright? This is important.”

 

“Look, if you don’t know what the password is, why don’t you just call somebody and ask? I mean, I’m sorry I gotta insist, but we’ve been--”

 

But Alan didn’t want to hear it. He reached down, grabbed the rip cord on the back of his hand and yanked it back with a loud clattering. His skeletal fingers went stiff and pointed outwards, the pressure gauge on his hand began to dance around wildly, and his wrist began to rotate. His fingers spun around on his hand so quickly that they began to fade from view, becoming nothing but a gray blur. As his hand continued to roar like an old gas-powered chainsaw, Alan shoved his hand forward and slammed it into the door, sending a huge plume of sparks dancing across the street.

 

The sunglasses, naturally, reared away from the door and shoved the porthole shut. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Dude, okay, okay! I-I’ll let you in, alright? Just calm the hell down!” Sure enough, the door quickly unlocked, and the sound of retreating footsteps barely managed to make themselves heard above Alan’s roaring hand.

 

Alan’s hand spun down quickly, and he lowered it again. “Much obliged,” he snarled. Once he’d done that, he looked up towards a long-abandoned corner of the building. A tiny closed-circuit camera stared down at him. Most people, if they somehow managed to spot it, would think it was broken. Alan knew better. As his hand spun down, he looked right at it, then pointed at it. “I know you’re watchin’, son,” he said. “Meet me in the lobby. I’ll time you. Ready? Go.”

 

Without another word, he twisted the handle, stomped inside and slammed the door shut behind him. He climbed up the stairs, goggles glowing with red light, and found his way into a large lounge area on the second floor. The area was brightly lit and actually fairly pleasant. Several disenfranchised youths were lounging about on the floor, dressed in typical Crazy Legs red. It was obvious that the room had been furnished by them, what with all the arcade cabinets, pinup posters and general electronics scattered haphazardly around. No one was paying those things any mind right now, though. All activity in the room had ground to a halt, as everyone was busy staring at him. The room was silent, save the gentle chaos of a generic, turn-of-the-century military shooter somebody was occupying themselves with.

 

Alan gave each of the youths a look and crossed his arms, his hand resting firmly on his rip cord. “The heck are y’all lookin’ at?” he asked. A swarm of heads quickly turned away. Alan nodded and leaned against the wall. “Thought so.”

 

Only a few seconds later, an out-of-place Bostonian accent cut through the silence. “Yo, Cornwell!”

 

Alan looked up to see a spindly youth weaving through the crowd towards him. He was a scrawny bastard, to be sure, but he compensated for that with a particularly cocky choice of fashion. Grey running shoes, white knee socks, grey pants down to the shins, white hand-wraps, a grey undershirt worn over a CL-red button-up jacket, a white headband bearing a red stripe barely keeping spiky brown hair in line -- and to top it all off, a pair of cardboard anaglyph 3D glasses, the kind that hadn’t seen circulation in a hundred years. He was scrawny, yes, but he had a subtle ganger flair about him that clearly stated to the world he wasn’t to be messed with. That, and the Bonk!-branded baseball bat he was twirling around.

 

Alan scoffed and rolled his eyes behind his goggles. “Sixteen seconds? Not bad, Scout.”

 

“Yeah, I’m pretty freakin’ fast,” Scout shot back, skidding to a stop. “But hey, looks like I’m not the only one in a hurry today. You’re payin’ for that door, man.”

 

“Check’s in the mail,” Alan grumbled. “Look, let’s skip the pleasantries, kiddo. I need to call in a favor.”

 

“Well, it must be important,” Scout remarked, twirling his bat once and tucking it into the sheath he wore on his back. “So let’s not waste any time ‘ere. Meet me in the armory.” He was sprinting off the way he came before Alan could open his mouth.

 

“Thank you, I will,” Alan replied, jogging off after him.

 

The two of them headed across the room to a dingy door. The word ARMORY was carved across it by a long-forgotten pen-knife. Scout threw the door open and darted inside, and Alan came after him a few moments later. The ARMORY in question was surprisingly full, stocked with shelves full of shotguns of all varieties, pistols of all types, and crates upon crates filled with ammo. But the centerpiece of the room was a bright red square of metal -- a computer terminal four feet high, with a brightly shining screen that read out “PROVISIONS. 100% CAPACITY. SELECT AMMUNITION TYPE” across it. Scout zipped over to the machine, vaulted over it and leant on it like the proverbial brick wall. “So,” he began, “you okay, man? You cool?”

 

Alan slammed the door shut behind him and clenched his hand into a fist with an audible whir. “No, I ain’t cool,” he growled.

 

“Well, you oughta get cool before we start. Wanna take a hit?” Scout kicked the machine with a loud echoing CLANK of steel on steel, and and a cloud of red smoke poured out of a vent on its side. Soon enough, it began to coalesce around him. He breathed in deeply, exhaled and shook his head.

 

Alan narrowed his goggles at Scout. “I’m clean,” he said. “And I didn’t give you that Dispenser so you could sit around all day huffin’ MediGas.”

 

“Aw, c’mon, old-timer, it’s good for you,” Scout chuckled. “Seriously, this stuff has been scientifically proven to reduce the risk of cancer. It’s only the off-brand stuff that gives it a bad rap.”

 

“My husband was addicted to Pyrovision when I met him,” Alan snapped. “I really don’t wanna go down that road.”

 

“MediGas ain’t Pyrovision, chummer,” Scout said, his smile fading for a moment. “‘Sides, you really look like you could use somethin’ to calm you down. I mean, you tried to break the freakin’ door down. If y--”

 

“Nope,” Alan said, cutting him off. “Nothin’ for me.”

 

Scout hesitated for the briefest moment, then shrugged. “Alright, man. Suit yourself.” He kicked the Dispenser again, and the gas stopped flowing. Scout took a long, deep breath and looked Alan right in the eyes. “...So. What’s up, man? What’s the alert?”

 

Alan closed the door behind him and looked Scout in the eyes. “I’m not gonna tell you that, Scout.”

 

“C’mon, man. You tried to break the door down. Something pissed you off.”

 

“I ain’t denyin’ that,” Alan agreed. “But I ain’t gonna tell ya what’s wrong. It’s a personal matter.”

 

Scout rolled his eyes. “Oh, it’s a personal matter. Well, God knows I’m not gonna get any more info outta you than that, so let’s get started. Whaddaya need, overalls?”

 

Alan nodded, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “...I need a gun.”

 

Scout’s eyebrows shot up. “...You need a gun?” he repeated.

 

“That’s what I said.”

 

Scout hesitated a moment, then cleared his throat. “...Whaddaya need a gun for, Al?”

 

“Why d’ya think I need a gun?” Alan shot back. “I’m gonna shoot somebody.”

 

“...Uh...” Scout hesitated. “...What’d he do to you?”

 

Alan crossed his arms and looked away from Scout. “...I can’t tell ya the details,” he said. “But he knew things about me that nobody was supposed to know. Now people are lookin’ for me. My whole life’s about to come apart at the seams, an’ Sachiko...” He hesitated for a moment, then shuddered. “...Sachiko went out last night, an’ he didn’t come home.”

 

Scout’s eyebrows shot up. “...That sucks,” he said after a moment. He said it with a certain finality, as someone with authority on whether something sucks or not. “Want me to have some guys shake down the usual spots?”

 

“That’d be mighty kind of ya,” Alan said. “But it won’t solve the problem.”

 

Scout cringed and scratched his head. “...Um... o-okay, Al, look. You’ve done a lot for us over the past couple of years. You got the fuzz off our backs that one time, patched me up after the accident... not to mention, you hooked us up with this puppy,” he said, knocking twice on the terminal in front of him. “Saved a few of my guys’ lives with this thing. Still have no idea where you got your hands on a military-grade Dispenser, but--”

 

“You said you weren’t gonna ask about that,” Alan said, cutting him off.

 

“Hey, I wasn’t gonna!” Scout threw up his bandaged hands defensively. “C’mon, man. I’m not even curious. Everybody needs their secrets.” Alan nodded silently in agreement. “All I meant was... you’ve been a big help to us, an’ I think this town’s been better for it. We wouldn’t’ve been able to push the Roamers back if it wasn’t for you. You’ve always got a friend in the Crazy Legs, man.”

 

“I know that already, Scout. That’s why I’m here. Where is this goin’?”

 

“Where it’s goin’ is,” Scout continued, “if you need somebody lit, we can take care of it for ya. They’d never find ‘im. And even if they did, they’d never figure out it was us. And even if they did, they’d never catch us. And even if they did, we’d never give up your name.”

 

Alan sighed softly and shook his head. “I appreciate that, Scout,” he said, “but no. This is somethin’ I gotta do myself.”

 

“You sure, man?” Scout asked. “You’re no good to us in prison. You’re no good to anybody in prison. And confidentially, I don’t think you’d last a day in there.”

 

“Have you ever been to prison, Scout?”

 

“Well, no. They’d have to catch me first. But I--”

 

“Then how do you know?”

 

“I don’t know, man. That’s not the point.”

 

Alan uncrossed his arms and placed his metallic hand on his hip. “What is the point?”

 

“The point is, I don’t want you to go to jail. We need you on the outside, man.”

 

Alan scoffed. “I didn’t know you cared, Scout.”

 

Scout chuckled and stepped out from behind the Dispenser. He lifted one leg and knocked on his “shoe” twice, sending a couple of metallic clinks echoing through the room. “Don’t push your luck, overalls. Somebody’s gotta keep these puppies in tune,” he said dismissively.

 

“Well, I’ll have to be extra careful, then,” Alan replied. “Look... if it makes ya feel any better, you can send some guys to help deal with the cleanup. You know a thing or two about hidin’ bodies, right?”

 

“Well, not me personally,” Scout said, shrugging, “but yeah, I know some guys. But I... well, you’re sure about this?”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

Scout hesitated for a moment, then sighed heavily and shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, man. If you’re sure.” He hesitated for another moment, then sighed. “...Just don’t make me regret it. Now, what kinda gun are you lookin’ for?”

 

“Somethin’ with stoppin’ power,” Alan replied. “Somethin’ that won’t necessarily kill a man in one shot, but’ll definitely knock him down. And, y’know, somethin’ that’d be easy for a beginner to handle.”

 

Scout nodded. “Sounds like you need a shotgun,” he replied.

 

“Great.” Alan walked over to a nearby shelf and grabbed a sawn-off without thinking. “I’ll be on my--”

 

“Whoa, whoa! Not that one!” Scout blurted out, darting over to him and snatching the gun away. “That’s the Force-a-Nature. It’s a powerful sucker. You hit a guy with this, you can kill him in one. I mean, dependin’ on how tough they are, obviously. How much muscle they’ve got, how healthy they’re living... that kinda thing. ‘Sides, it’s got a hell of a kick to it. And by a hell of a kick, I mean kinetic boosters linin’ the barrel. You get up close to somebody and fire this puppy, you’ll throw ‘em into a wall. You jump and fire this thing down, you can propel yourself into the air. I’m not even kidding. If you’re not trained to handle the recoil on this thing, you’ll break your freakin’ arm!”

 

Alan hesitated a moment, then nodded. “...Fair enough. What would you recommend, then?”

 

Scout grinned, twirled the gun in his hand and rested it on his shoulder. “Oh, I’m sure we can find somethin’ for ya. Step into my office.”

 


	8. We Sell Products And Get In Fights

Scout led Alan into a large, empty garage. There were a few muscle cars that had been abandoned in the process of being repaired, each of them painted garish Crazy Legs red, but Scout walked right past them. In the far corner of the garage, there stood a large collection of wooden crates, pried apart, stacked on top of one another. Scout darted right up to them, leapt onto the pile and grinned at Alan. “Alright, overalls,” he sneered. “You name a gun, we’ve probably got it in here. Pick a weapon.”

Alan stopped in his tracks, his expression suddenly shifting from annoyed confidence to awe and terror. “...Are those... Are those Mann Co. supply crates?” he asked.

Scout chuckled. “Nothin’ gets past you, does it?”

“Scout!” Alan blurted out. “D-Did you rob a Mann Co. munitions shipment?”

“You know it!” Scout grinned and pulled out his baseball bat. “Where’d you think I got this?”

“How the hell did you pull that off?” Alan asked.

“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Scout chuckled. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve already filed off the serial numbers, dumped the GPS tags, all that good stuff. These guns are untraceable, or your money back.”

“And you really think you can get away with selling bootleg Mann Co. weaponry?”

“It’s not bootleged, Al, it’s just stolen,” Scout chuckled. “‘Sides, if Saxton Hale has that big of a problem with one truckload of guns goin’ missing out of the hundreds he sends out ‘ere every damn day, he can take it up with me.”

“What if he does?”

“I, uh... you let me worry about that.” Scout shook his head and hopped off the pile. “So, let’s talk guns. You want a shotgun? I’ll get you one.”

“...Uh... yeah, good,” Alan said, nodding. “How much am I gonna owe you for this?”

“Don’t worry about it, man. It’s on the house,” Scout assured him.

“I insist on payin’,” Alan replied. “Think of it as somethin’ for the trouble. I’ve got my credstick with me. How much do you need?”

“We don’t take money on arms deals, Al,” Scout replied. “We only take scrap metal.”

Alan blinked and shot him an odd look. “Scrap metal?” he repeated.

“Yeah, scrap metal,” Scout explained. “Or junk electronics, whichever’s easier. We send some guys down to the recycling center every week. That way, we get to look like upstanding pillars of the community, plus we don’t have to launder money!”

“Oh. That’s... sorta clever? I think?” Alan pondered it for a moment, then shrugged. “Well... I’ve got a broken TV in the back. That enough for a shotgun?”

“Could be. How big is it?”

“75 inches, plasma screen, and it’s got a built-in router.”

“Ooh, does the router still work?”

“I think so.”

“Cool. Yeah, that’ll get you a shotgun. In fact, hang on...” Scout dug through the crates for a moment and came out with a bog-standard handgun. “For that kinda cred, because I like you, I’ll throw in a pistol. Semi-automatic, .22 gauge, twelve-round clip. Pretty simple, really. Just point an’ shoot. Here, catch!”

Scout tossed the pistol through the air towards Alan. Alan, naturally, gasped in shock and dashed over to catch it. It bounced off his hand, but his other one darted up and snatched it out of the air. “Hey, careful! What’re you doin’?” he blurted out.

“Relax, overalls. It ain’t loaded,” Scout chuckled. “None of these guns are loaded. All our bullets are in the Armory. Don’t forget to stop by on your way out.”

“Y-Yeah, I will...” Alan shuddered and set the pistol down on the table next to him. “...I’m not sure I’ll need this, though.”

“I insist on givin’ it to you.”

Alan opened his mouth to reply, then closed it and shrugged. “Alrighty then,” he sighed. “What kinda shotguns you got in there?”

“Well, lemme tell you.” Scout leapt up the pile of crates and began to dig through them, before eventually coming out with a sleek, modern and very tan weapon. “Here’s a strange one. The Widowmaker here was developed in conjunction with Telemax Industries and some... Czech company, I think. How it works is, it fires cast-iron pellets that are coated with nanoparticles or somethin’. You fire them at somebody, and the nanoparticles will latch onto the iron particles in your target’s blood. Then, there’s a tiny little teleporter in the ammo chamber that calls ‘em back... and it takes the iron with ‘em. Not only will your targets get hella anemia, but it fashions the iron into more pellets in a matter of seconds. So long as you don’t miss, you’ll never have to reload.”

Alan let out a low whistle. “Impressive,” he remarked, “but a little ambitious.”

“Australian ingenuity, brotha’.” Scout chuckled, twirling the shotgun in his hand. “Works every time, or your money back.”

“I don’t know, Scout,” Alan replied. “Seems a little too high-tech for my tastes. It’d be a crying shame to only use a piece of Aussie tech like that once, then dismantle it and bury it in three different states.”

“Fair enough,” Scout said, tossing the shotgun back into the pile. “Well, in that case, how about... ooh, I know. They call this baby the Panic Attack.”

“I’ve heard of that one,” Alan replied. “It’s an auto-shotgun, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scout confirmed, pulling an automatic shotgun out of the box. “Four in the chamber, fires your standard buckshot, nice little grip on the back, nice high-quality barrel on the front. It ain’t nearly as high-tech as the Widowmaker, but it gets the job done. Interested?”

“Nah,” Alan replied, staring at his augmented hand. “An auto-shotgun would tear through a man like tissue paper. I don’t...” He hesitated a moment, then curled his hand into a fist. “...I don’t wanna get done with him quick. I want him to know why I’m doin’ this.”

“Yeesh. Remind me not to piss you off,” Scout chuckled. “But okay. You want somethin’ that’ll keep the target alive long enough to explain your motive?” Scout set the Panic Attack down, reached into the crate and came back out with some kind of... laser rifle? “Try the Pomson 6000. From somethin’ called the Grordbort Line.”

Alan quirked an eyebrow. “What’n Sam Hill is that supposed to be?” he asked.

Scout peered into the crate. “Uh, lessee... It says here, ‘Being an innovative handheld irradiating utensil capable of producing rapid pulses of high-amplitude radiation in sufficient quantity as to immolate, maim, and otherwise incapacitate the unregistered.’” He shrugged. “I’ll be honest with you. The instruction manual is all technobabble and engineering talk. I have no idea how this thing works. I think it’s an EMP gun. EMPs are like miniature nuclear explosions... they’re radioactive, right? Is that what it’s talkin’ about?”

“I don’t think so,” Alan answered. “But I’m not sure I should trust somethin’ that looks like it came out of a crappy 1960s sci-fi flick.”

“Hey, don’t knock the ‘60s, man. Retro’s back in vogue,” Scout chuckled. “I mean, the second most popular energy drink in the world is Bonk! Atomic Punch, for God’s sake. So long as we’ve got a second Cold War goin’, might as well bring back some of the fun parts of the ‘60s, right?”

“I guess,” Alan remarked, shrugging, “but I’m still inclined to doubt the reliability of a product that looks like it was built a hundred years ago. Even if it was built in the future a hundred years ago. Besides, why would I need an EMP gun? I’m trying to kill somebody.”

“Well, lemme tell you,” Scout chuckled, “when the robot uprising comes, you’ll wish you had one of these babies.”

Alan groaned. “Don’t even get me started on that, Scout. I’m an engineer, remember? There is no robot uprising.”

“Not yet, anyway,” Scout chuckled. “But hey, if it’s not your thing it’s not your thing. That’s fine. I know what you need. You’re an engineer. A thinkin’ man. You need a thinkin’ man’s gun.” Scout set the Pomson aside, continued rifling through the shotgun chest, and came back out with a particularly fancy model with some kind of capacitor wired to the chamber. “Say hello, Al, to the Frontier Justice.”

Alan arched an eyebrow. He was well-acquainted with the Frontier Justice. Honestly, he was surprised to see they were still being manufactured. “What’s that one do?” he asked, if only for the sake of appearances.

“Well, it shoots people. What’d you think?” Scout chuckled. “This baby was developed in conjunction with Conagher Machinery and Cybernetics. It’s a smartgun, Mann Co.’s top of the line. Sure, it can only fit three in the chamber, but it’s got a hell of a compensation feature. It’s got a receiver on it--” He tapped the capacitor twice. “--that can link up with most Conagher-brand Oculaugs, and just about any Conagher-made Sentry on the market. If the turret gets broken, it sends out a distress signal to the receiver here, and the receiver gives the gun crits -- two for every hostile the turret shoots down, up to a max of 35. ”

Alan sighed and shook his head in mock disbelief. “Criticals on command...” he muttered softly.

“I know, right?” Scout chuckled and held out the shotgun. “It’s freakin’ awesome. We’re livin’ in the future, Al. Whaddaya say? Wanna give this baby a go?”

“Well, I only need to kill one guy, and I don’t exactly have a Sentry Gun lyin’ around... but, y’know...” Alan slowly smirked. “Somehow, despite that, I feel like this might be my best bet.”

“Sweet,” Scout chuckled, tossing the shotgun down towards Alan. “Then we’ve got a deal?”

Alan snatched the shotgun out of the air and pumped it once. “Heck yes,” he sneered, a wicked smirk coming to his face. “Nice doin’ business with you, Scout.”

“You too, Al,” Scout shot back, tipping an invisible hat. “You drop that TV off whenever you get the chance. And hey -- don’t worry about Sachiko, man. He’s clever. If he’s in trouble, which he probably isn’t, he’ll find a way to get himself out of it.”

“Thanks, Scout,” Alan replied. “Hey... would you give me a minute? I gotta make a phone call here.”

Scout shrugged and headed for the exit. “Knock yourself out, overalls. I’ll be in the firing range if you need me.”

“Much obliged.”

As soon as Scout was out the door, Alan reached up and pressed his finger against his temple and smirked. “Call Dr. Heinrich,” he said simply, and his phone began to ring in his pocket. He leaned casually against one of the cars and crossed his arms, letting the ringing echo through his head, waiting for an answer...

“Hello?”

Alan’s smirk faded quickly. That was not Dr. Heinrich. That didn’t sound a thing like Dr. Heinrich. That was an angry Russian man. “...Uh... hello there, sir,” he said. “I... wh-who is this, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“I am...” The sound of a roaring crowd cut the man off for a moment. “...I am called Heavy. Who is this?”

Alan blinked a couple of times before continuing. “...Er... alrighty then. My name’s Alan. Is... Is Dr. Heinrich there? I need to talk to him.”

“No. He is asleep.”

“...uh.” Alan chuckled softly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I have several questions.”

“He is asleep because he lost a bar fight.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s...” Alan stared up at the ceiling for a moment, rolling his words over in his head. “...not what I thought you were gonna say. The doctor doesn’t really strike me as the bar fightin’ type.”

“The man he fought,” Heavy replied, “does not need much of a reason.”

“Oh. Well... that’s a shame.” Alan hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. “In that case, when he wakes up, could you tell him Alan Cornwell called, and to call me back?”

“I will do this.”

“Okay. Much obliged, Mister... Heavy. I guess that’s all I--”

But before Alan could finish his sentence, the wall behind him exploded.


	9. Thrilling Tales #164

A spray of shattered bricks scattered across the garage. In a shocking coincidence, the shrapnel managed to take out all three of the fluorescent lights, plunging the room into darkness and sending a smattering of glass raining down on the garage below. With a frantic cry of shock, Alan darted behind the car and ducked, somehow managing to avoid getting hit with anything.

 

“Alan!” the Heavy barked in his ear. “I hear explosion! Are you hurt?”

 

“Awww, hell...” Alan groaned quietly, clutching at his head. “I’m okay... I’m okay. Nothin’ hit me. I’m okay.”

 

“Are you in danger?”

 

As if in response, Alan heard the sound of approaching footsteps. He swallowed heavily. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper. “...I think so.”

 

“Then I will stay here and help you. A friend of Doctor’s is a friend of mine.” Alan chose not to comment on that. “You should hide. Stay quiet. Get to cover if you have not.”

 

“I’m in cover, don’t worry.”

 

“You are the one who should be not worrying. Now, what do you see?”

 

“Well, I--”

 

Before Alan could go any further, he felt his gun being yanked off his back and heard it clattering away. He leapt to his feet and whipped around, only to see an imposing figure standing behind him. The figure was decked out in medieval plate armor, complete with a wrought-iron breastplate, codpiece and spiked pauldrons, over a bright red uniform with some kind of spiked circle insignia emblazoned on the arms. A dark bucket helm obscured his entire face save his right eye. Less imposingly, the man wore striped, frilly red pants and pointy metal shoes. More imposingly, he had five pill grenades strapped to his armor -- plus a spot for a sixth that had ever-so-conveniently gone missing -- and had a wooden buckler with a blunted metal spike affixed to it strapped to his arm. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he clutched an ornate, bloodstained two-handed sword with a golden hilt tightly in his hands. The swordsman let out a deep snarl, synthesized beyond recognition, and clenched his hands around his sword.

 

Alan let out a soft gasp despite himself, then his eyes glazed over. He’d been following the news lately, and he knew what was happening here. And yet, somehow, he wasn’t afraid. If anything, he was only angrier. His eyes narrowed, and he let out a soft growl. “...Oh. Never mind. It’s just Demoman.”

 

 **“You were expectin’ someone else?”** Demoman chuckled, then slung his sword over his shoulder. **“Hang up the commlink.”**

 

Alan growled and slowly reached up. “Don’t forget to have Doc call me back,” he said. He quickly tapped his temple, and Heavy was denied the opportunity to reply.

 

 **“Good,”** Demoman growled. **“So. You listen close, ‘cause I’m only gonna ask this once. Where’s Scout Jackson?”**

 

Alan blinked, suddenly sucked out of the experience. “Scout... Jackson? Who’s Scout Jackson?”

 

 **“Your boss,”** Demoman snarled. **“Where is he?”**

 

Alan blinked. “Wait, you’re tellin’ me Scout is actually his name? ...Huh. I always thought that was just his street name, somethin’ he’d use to keep TFPD off his back. But no, he’s... actually named Scout. Go figure.”

 

Demoman darted forward and slammed the hilt of his sword into Alan’s head. He cried out in pain and stumbled backwards, only to be knocked flat on his back by a swift kick to the chest. As soon as his back hit the floor, Demoman pressed his shiny metal shoe against Alan’s chest and pointed his sword at his Adam’s apple. **“Don’t play games with me, metalhead. Where’s Scout? I’ve got business with him.”**

 

“Huh... Nice try, one-eye,” Alan growled up at him. “I know your MO. You don’t kill people, just beat ‘em up. The Claidheamh Mòr there comes with bloodstains painted on, and yours ain’t even sharpened.”

 

In response, Demoman swung his sword like a golf club and smacked Alan in the face with it. It was dull, yes, but it was also several pounds of metal on the end of a large pendulum, and it easily put a dent in his cheek. **“You come wide at me again, boy, I’ll shove that ugly hunka’ chrome right up your arse.”**

 

“...Aaaah...” Alan groaned, reached up and rubbed the point of impact with his organic hand. “...Point taken.”

 

**“Good. Now, call your boss. I gotta talk to him.”**

 

Alan grunted and rolled his eyes, not that Demoman would have been able to tell. “He ain’t my boss,” he explained. “I don’t run with the Crazy Legs.”

 

**“You’re in their base. You’re wearin’ their colors.”**

 

“So are you.”

 

Demoman glanced down at his stripéd pants for a moment, then pressed down on Alan’s chest. **“You’ve got a shotgun. Pretty advanced, too. That’s a Conagher model. The Frontier Justice is usually favored by soldiers, corpsec...”** He ground his heel into Alan’s solar plexus. **“...career killers...”**

 

Alan grunted and clenched his robotic hand into a fist. “I’m... I’m practicin’ my right to Open Carry. What’re you sayin’, I ain’t got rights now? I thought this was America.”

 

Demoman scoffed and rolled his eye, but chose not to respond to that. **“You sure seem to be pretty snippy for an innocent civilian trapped deep in a gang’s headquarters.”**

 

Alan narrowed his eyes at Demoman, and his goggles followed suit. “Yeah? Well, I guess I’m still upset about the time you blew up my shop.”

 

Demoman blinked and let the pressure off Alan’s chest slightly. **“I did what?”**

 

“You don’t even remember, do you?” Alan scoffed. “Three years ago. You were chasin’ after some big, ex-military cyborg. He was testin’ out a fancy Telemax aug and he went rogue, started robbin’ corporate vaults. What was he callin’ himself? Telefrag? Somethin’ like that. You were chasin’ him down, blind stinkin’ drunk, and you got into a fight on my street. You tossed one of your grenades at him, but he ‘ported out of the way and you blew up my storefront instead. Set me back ten thousand bucks. You destroyed everything I’d built! I almost lost my livelihood ‘cause of you!”

 

 **“I... uh...”** Demoman lowered his sword and rubbed the back of his mask. **“...Didn’t... Wasn’t there somebody who helped pay for the damages?”**

 

“Oh, sure. A corporate charity drive’ picked up the bill for me, and I didn’t have the will to say no. I’ve spent the last two years with the Sword of Damocles over my head, waitin’ for them to collect on the debt! Do you have any idea how stressful that’s been? Alan Cornwell ain’t no franchisee, son!”

 

 **“I...”** Demoman didn’t say anything for a few moments, then sighed heavily and took his foot off Alan’s chest. **“I do remember now,”** he said. **“I’m sorry, Mr. Cornwell. I don’t wanna make things any harder for you. I’m tryin’ to stand up for the downtrodden here. If you don’t know where Scout is... you can go. Get out before the fightin’ starts. An’ stay outta--”**

 

Suddenly, the door leading into the garage burst open, and Scout rushed in, bat clenched tightly in his hand. “Well, well, if it ain’t the Teufort Cyclops,” he sneered, hooking his foot around the door and pulling it closed behind him. “What an honor. Looks like we’re movin’ up in the world. Al, you okay?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Alan groaned, slowly hauling himself to his feet. “I’m gonna go, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

“Yeah, no problem, man. Get outta here. This is between me and him.” Alan nodded and walked off towards the table where he’d set his shiny new handgun and tucked it into his pocket.

 

 **“Oi,”** Demoman interjected, pointing his sword at Alan, **“you’ve got a license for these, right?”**

 

“‘Course I do,” Alan shot back.

 

Demoman picked up Alan’s shotgun and tossed it over to him. **“Then you’re free to go. Stay out of trouble, citizen.”**

 

Alan caught the shotgun, arched an eyebrow at Demoman, then shrugged and headed for the hole he’d blasted in the wall. “Much obliged,” he said simply.

 

As soon as Alan was out of the room, Demoman turned around and swung his sword over his shoulder. **“So. Scout Jackson,”** he growled. **“You’re early. Aren’t you supposed to send your flunkies out to fight me before you talk to me face to face?”**

 

“Yeah, that’s how this usually goes,” Scout replied, shrugging, “but here’s the thing -- it never works. You’re real good with crowd control. The only guys who ever give you a run for your money do it on their own. I don’t wanna get all my guys sent to the hospital for no reason, so I figured we’d just skip to the one-on-one fight at the end. And if you beat me, then you can fight my flunkies on the way out.”

 

 **“Eh-- I... Oh. Y’know, that’s... actually kind of a refreshin’ change. You’re savin’ everybody a lotta trouble here, and I appreciate that.”** Demoman chuckled, then pointed his sword at Scout. **“Let’s not jump into the fight right away, though. We’ve got business, you and I.”**

 

“Oh yeah, I figured that out,” Scout shot back. “Just let yourself in, I see. You’re payin’ for that wall, man.”

 

Demoman laughed, then shrugged his shoulders. **“Don’t push your luck. Now, let’s talk about the guns.”**

 

Scout rolled his eyes. “Aw, crap. I should’ve know that’s what this is about.”

 

**“Yeah, that’s what this is about. This isn’t how you operate, Scout. Rippin’ off Mann Co. supply trucks isn’t the Crazy Legs’ style. It’s too risky, even for you. You’re street punks, not corporate mercenaries. What’s your game? Did somebody hire you?”**

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Scout chuckled. “Nobody put us up to this, man. We don’t do jobs for hire. This was all us. What can I say? We’re just that good.”

 

 **“Oh, I’m not denyin’ that,”** Demoman conceded, nodding. **“You are good. You’ve edged a lot of small-timers outta the Badlands. You’ve carved out a nice territory for yourselves and defended it well. You’re shapin’ up to be a major player in these parts, with a little time. This just doesn’t seem like the kinda thing you’d normally think up.”**

 

“Hey, don’t think I don’t I see what you’re doin’ there, Dork Knight,” Scout said quickly. “You’re tryin’ to butter me up so I’ll give you information easier. An’ it’s not gonna work. You can kiss my ass all you want, I’m still not gonna tell you who hired us.”

 

**“Oh, so someone did hire you?”**

 

Scout threw up one finger in protest. “I just sa--” He stopped in his tracks a few moments later, then lowered his hand again. “...crap. Well, I’m not fallin’ for that twice.”

 

 **“No one ever does,”** Demoman chuckled. **“I’m not leavin’ without that name.”**

 

“Enh... Alright, I’ll tell you what,” Scout sneered. “You want a name? Fine. We’ve both got something the other one wants. You’re doing some good work here, keeping the streets of Neo Teufort safe and all that. An’ don’t get me wrong, less crime is a good thing. But it is a little... y’know, inconvenient in our case. So maybe if you were to, y’know... look away from our operations every so often, I could hook you up with that name. What would you say to that?”

 

 **“I would say...”** Demoman doubled over, pointed and laughed. **“That’s... That’s adorable. I like you, lad. You’ve got moxie,”** he eventually got out. **“But seriously, I think you know I can’t do that.”**

 

Scout shrugged. “Then I guess you’re gonna have to beat it out of me.”

 

 **“Then I will,”** Demoman replied, clenching his fists around the hilt of his sword. **“Nothin’ personal, Scout. But I’m gonna beat you so hard you’ll have a twitch.”**

 

Scout threw out his arms and grinned. “Yeah, why don’t you come over and say that to my face, tough guy?”

 

Without saying another word, Demoman charged again, still screaming his synthesized war-cry. Scout waited a moment, then leapt into the air. At the peak of his jump, two jets of pressurized air shot out of the bottoms of his feet and propelled him yet higher. Demoman kept charging, and shot clean under Scout’s legs. He tried to skid to a stop, but he was left with no time to react and slammed into the door.

 

“WOO!” Scout shouted, throwing his arms out in triumph and bouncing back away from him. “Didn’t see that comin’, didja?”

 

Demoman wrapped his hand around his wrist and yanked his shield out of the door with a loud crunch. **“Okay, I knew you were augmented,”** he groaned, **“but that’s just silly.”**

 

“Aw, quit hatin’, old man. It’s not like you don’t have experience takin’ down rogue cyborgs,” Scout chuckled, twirling his bat in his hand.

 

 **“I know, but I’ve never heard of an augment that does that,”** Demoman replied. **“Are those custom? Where does a ganger get custom augs? What even are those?”**

 

“They’re gonna kick your ass, is what they are! Bring it!”

 

Demoman and Scout both darted forward, weapons held high. Demoman swung down at Scout’s head, but Scout leapt out of the way, whooping with mocking laughter, and countered with a swift swing to the small of his back. Demoman stumbled slightly and whipped around, swinging his sword horizontally at Scout’s chest. But Scout leapt into the air, then leapt again, and the blade sailed under his feet. As Scout tumbled back down, he swung his bat at Demoman’s head in a vicious vertical arc. Demoman leaned left, easily dodging the blow, and countered with a swift knock from his shield. The dull, weighty metal spike caught Scout right in the solar plexus on the way down, and the fight came to a screeching halt. Scout’s eyes began to bulge out of his head. He dropped his bat and clutched at his chest, cyberlegs wobbling beneath him as he slammed into the ground. He stumbled backwards, gasping silently, trying desperately to catch his breath.

 

Demoman didn’t give him the chance. He stepped swiftly up to Scout, grabbed his shoulder and swung his body around violently. He slammed him into the door, then closed the distance between them and pressed his sword to his throat. **“Who hired you?”** he asked calmly.

 

“...Aw, crap,” Scout groaned, pushing desperately against the sword at his throat to no avail. “Uh... Go to hell, Demo...”

 

Demoman chuckled softly, then pressed his sword a little tighter against his throat. **“Why don’t you just make this easy on yourself?”**

 

Scout continued silently choking for a few moments, straining to breathe. “...Okay, okay, you got me,” he eventually got out. “Somebody hired us. We got a... a tip about a Mann Co. delivery that was gonna b... be understaffed. They covered our... expenses and then some, and... they said we could keep the guns an-- and everything. Seemed too good... to be true, so we... jumped on it before somebody else could.”

 

Demoman pressed harder against Scout’s throat. **“Who’s they?”**

 

Scout’s eyes bugged out, and he clawed feebly at Demoman’s mask. “Aaakk... Aaargk... Okay! Okay... I’ll give you the name, alright?”

 

Demoman continued to glower at Scout and leaned in slightly. **“Go on.”**

 

Scout let out a faint groan, his eyes bugging out of his head, then nodded as best he could. “...Yeah... Her name is--”

 

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out through the garage. Sparks flew off Demoman’s helm, and he stumbled to the side. **“What the bloody hell?!”** he blurted out, holding his sword at the ready.

 

Alan stood in the hole in the wall, smoke trailing from the barrel of his shotgun. He loaded another shell into the chamber and leveled it off at Demoman. “Demo-Trackin’ Device on the gun, huh?” he snarled. “Real clever. Or at least, it mighta’ been the first time you tried it. Five years down the line, it’s just startin’ to get predictable.”

 

 **“What’re you doin’ back here?”** Demoman asked. **“I thought you said you don’t work with the Crazy Legs!”**

 

“Well, I don’t,” Alan explained, “but Scout and I have an understandin’. I do an odd job for him every so often -- get him some hardware, keep his augs in tune -- and in return, he keeps the gangs tryin’ to extort me away from my shop. Whereas you blow up my property and spy on me. Given the choice, I’d rather be protected by him than by you.”

 

Demoman sighed and shook his head. **“You really sure you wanna make an enemy of a superhero, Mr. Cornwell?”**

 

“Aw, don’t kid yourself. You ain’t no superhero. You ain’t even auged,” Alan snarled. “You’re just a man with some fancy armor, a few trick bombs and a whole lotta luck. An’ none of those are gonna do you much good against a mind like mine.” He pumped the shotgun one more time for emphasis. “I’m gonna tear you down, Junior.”

 

Demoman didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then, eventually, he snorted and lifted his sword. **“All right. We’ll chalk this one up to a learnin’ lesson.”**

 

Alan began to walk across the garage towards Demoman slowly, and fired at him. The buckshot went wide, embedding itself harmlessly into the far wall. Demoman, not impeded in the slightest, charged. Alan fired again, and the bullets bounced harmlessly off his chestplate. He pulled the trigger a third time, but nothing happened. He looked down, and realized he’d pumped a perfectly good shell out of the chamber with that extra pump. By this point, of course, there was no time to reload. Demoman swung his sword down in a vertical arc, red electricity leaping from the blade. In desperation, Alan threw his shotgun up into the air and blocked the swing. He tossed his useless gun aside and threw a wild haymaker towards Demoman’s chest. Surprisingly, it connected, sending Demoman off-balance enough to allow for another punch.

 

But the fight became decidedly more one-sided after that. Demoman regained his balance after the second punch connected and swung his sword at Alan’s head. Alan braced his organic hand against his forearm and blocked the sword-swing, though the force did send him stumbling backwards. He ended up stumbling back clean through the hole in the wall, and Demoman rapidly pressed the advantage. Alan cried out in panic and semi-randomly swung his arm, trying to block the flurry of blows.

 

At around this time, Scout managed to catch his breath. He grabbed his bat and slowly crawled to his feet again, glancing over to Alan and Demoman. His eyes widened. Alan was fighting Demoman. Alan had never seemed like the fighting type to Scout... and he still didn’t. He was getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter. If he was gonna get out of this one with his dome intact, he’d need a little help. He crouched down and rolled over to a car, then a workbench, then a fridge, then another car, darting from cover to cover like the protagonist of a generic, turn-of-the-century military shooter until he finally reached the pile of crates.

 

By this point, Alan had been forced out into the alley, and Demoman’s sword was coming down at his head. In an act of desperation, he reached up and caught the blade in the palm of his cybernetic hand. Acting quickly, his organic hand shot up, grabbed the ripcord and yanked it down. His fingers straightened, began to spin and roared like a chainsaw. He swung his hand to the side, knocking Demoman’s sword to the side (though not from his grip), then slashed his spinning hand viciously at his helmet. A huge plume of sparks flew over the alley, and a spatter of blood flew from Demoman’s mask. He cried out in pain and stumbled backwards, but did not fall. As Alan’s hand spun down, he tensed his arm up and waited for the counter-attack...

 

...but it never came. Demoman just stood there, cloaked in shadow, his mask ripped open like a tin can, staring blankly at Alan. His arms hung limply at his sides, and his sword fell unceremoniously to the asphalt. **“...Bloody hell...”** he murmured, awe clearly apparent even through his synthesizer. **“I dunno how I missed that... It is you.”**

 

Before Alan could reply, Scout charged out of the hole in the wall and leapt into the air. He fired his jets at the peak of his jump, a trail of white exhaust trailing from the soles of his feet. He lifted his bat skyward, loosed a battle cry of “Think fast, chucklenuts!” and delivered a mighty flying roundhouse kick to the back of Demoman’s head. Shockingly, this actually worked. Demoman stumbled forward, slowly turned around, stumbled around in a circle for a minute or two, then fell ungracefully to the ground. He caught himself with his hands and, with trembling arms, tried to push himself back up. But before he could do that, Scout leapt onto his back and slammed his bat against his helmet. A loud, echoing CLANG rang out over the alley, and Demoman fell to the ground.

 

Scout panted heavily, tucked his bat back into its sheath and wiped his forehead. “We got ‘em, we got ‘em,” he said quickly. After that, his breath caught in his throat and he slowly sunk down to the ground, sitting cross-legged on Demoman’s back. “...Holy crap, we got ‘em. Wow. We just... I j... You got a smoke?”

 

Alan didn’t say anything. He just stared at Demoman for a few long moments, then sighed, clenched and unclenched his fist and walked back into the garage.

 

“Whoa, where’re you goin’?” asked Scout.

 

“I’m goin’ home,” Alan replied. “I’m gonna pick up some more shells, and then I’m gonna get some damn sleep. Nice doin’ business with you.”

 

“Alright,” Scout asked, tapping Demoman’s helmet with his foot. “Thanks for the assist, chummer.”

 

“Nah, it’s nothin’,” Alan mumbled, already walking away.

 

As Alan rounded the corner and his footsteps faded away to nothing, Scout chuckled and stood up. He let out a heavy sigh, hopped off Demoman’s back and jogged in place for a couple of moments. “I’m not even winded,” he mused, casually checking his pulse. He quickly set back down, chuckled to himself and knelt down. Grinning a cocky grin, he reached down and yanked Demoman’s slashed-open helmet off his head. That done, he tucked it under his arm and kicked him over.

 

He immediately dropped the helmet, cried out in shock and scrambled backwards. He stayed there for a moment, then fished a small one-eared headset mic out of his pocket and slapped it over his ear. He stabbed at it with his finger, then grabbed Demoman’s arms and started dragging him into the garage. “Call Milkman!” he snapped, hauling the body as fast as he could. “C’mon, pick up pick up pick up pi-- Milkman? Yeah, it’s me. I got him. Yeah, yeah, thanks. Yea-- No! No, don’t come down here!”

 

Scout had dragged Demoman over to one of the cars by this point, and quickly pulled open the trunk. “...No, it’s cool. T-Tell the guys to stay put. I got this.” Scout picked up Demoman under his armpits and dumped him into the trunk. “No, I said it’s cool. I... L-Look, I might have to go dark for a few days. Just... until I figure out what I’m gonna do here. ...What?”

 

Scout hesitated a moment, then reached out with trembling fingers and placed two fingers on Demoman’s neck. He held them there for a moment, then let out a heavy sigh of relief. “...oh, thank God,” he moaned. “Okay. He’s alive. ...What? ...Yeah, that’s a good thing! You got a problem with that? He’s...” Scout hesitated a moment, then cleared his throat. “I took off his mask. I... I know who Demoman is. ...No! No. I can’t tell you. It’s... I...” He hesitated again, then swallowed and grabbed the trunk lid. “You know how we just robbed a Mann Co. supply truck? ...Yeah, well guess what?”

 

Scout slammed the trunk shut and darted over to the driver’s door. “This is too big for us.”

 


	10. Mad Milkmen

The first thing Medic noticed was a cool sensation on his forehead. An ice pack, he thought. Without thinking, he lifted his hand and pressed it against the cool spot, and his suspicions were confirmed. It was nice... soothing, which he supposed was the point. It helped with the pain. And wow, was there ever a lot of pain. He groaned heavily, keeping his eyes closed, and slowly tilted his head forward again. “How long was I out?” he asked mechanically.

 

“One hour and thirteen minutes,” came Heavy’s voice in response, from off to his left. “Not as long as I thought.”

 

Medic slowly pried his eyes open, only to find that he was in the back of an SUV. He sat in a reclined seat on the passenger’s side, still in the clothes he was wearing at Resupply. He could see the Player sitting in the driver’s seat, and an arduous glance to the side revealed that yes, Heavy was sitting behind him. “I concur. These nanosutures are impressive,” Medic said quietly, closing his eyes again.

 

“Yes, they are.”

 

Medic fell silent for a moment. “...I probably shouldn’t have been fighting.”

 

“No, you should not.”

 

Medic cringed. “...Is, er... No.” He hesitated a moment, then cleared his throat. “You’re not angry at me, are you?”

 

“Of course not. I am angry at Del Fuego. He will not be coming with us.”

 

“Oh. I see. Well, that’s good to hear.” Medic leaned back slightly, then opened his eyes again and looked back to Heavy. “Wait, where are we going?”

 

Heavy shifted in his seat. “...I... had a contract for us. A big one. It was supposed to happen next week. After you were knocked out, I got a call from the client. Apparently... it has to happen tonight.”

 

Medic blinked. “...And you want me along?”

 

“Yes. With Del Fuego out of the picture, we will need a third operative. There are many I could have chosen, but for a team this small... having a doctor might come in handy. And you are the best.”

 

“Do I get a say in this?”

 

Heavy fell silent for a moment. “...Да. I’m sorry. We tried to wake you, but... you were out cold. But that is no excuse. I... should have given you a choice. So I will give you one now. We have second-stringers lined up, and we can call them. You can back out if you want to. We will drop you off.”

 

“Well... we’ve come this far. I’ll hear you out, at least.” Medic shrugged his shoulders dismissively. “What’s the job?”

 

“It is a basic heist. We force our way into a building and take a briefcase. Apparently, we are going to be walked through the process via comms. The clients will pick us up, drop us off, run interference, and extract us. And apparently, security will be low. It sounds... easy.”

 

“A briefcase, hm?” Medic repeated. “That’s it? How... boilerplate. I assume there’s something in the briefcase?”

 

“So do I,” Heavy replied.

 

“...But we don’t know what it is.” Medic sighed. “Well, where are we stealing it from?”

 

“They will tell us when we get there.”

 

“...Gah. I see. It’s one of those operations.” Heavy shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Medic sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. “We worked together for years, Heavy. You of all people should know know how much I hate being left in the dark. If I’m going to go into this without a clear objective, there had better be something very special in it for me.”

 

“If it helps,” Heavy replied, “we are being paid a lot of money.”

 

“How much money, exactly?”

 

Heavy told him.

 

Medic’s eyes went wide. He gasped as if he’d been shot and clutched at his chest, sending the ice pack tumbling into his lap. “...My God,” he whispered, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. “That is... All that for a briefcase?”

 

“More,” Heavy replied. “Because they are making us go early, they are paying us double.”

 

“Gott im Himmel!”

 

“For the inconvenience.”

 

“Well, yes, naturally...” Medic shuddered, grinned, then whooped with laughter. “Wunderbar! This is... This is one-last-score money! My first run in over five years, and you set me up with a retirement package!”

 

“Heheh. Yes, I did.” Heavy grinned. “Although I hope you will continue to press your luck.”

 

“Oh-ho-ho-ho, we’ll see. Be patient.” Medic chuckled and tossed the ice pack into the backseat. After that, he fell silent for a moment, staring blankly at the roof of the car.

 

“What are you thinking?” asked Heavy.

 

“I think,” Medic replied, “that if I sat this one out, I’d spend the rest of my life regretting it. Playing it safe is for wageslaves.”

 

Player grinned into the rearview mirror and flashed a thumbs-up.

 

Heavy smiled as well. “So, you will join us?”

 

“Jawohl!”

 

Heavy grinned and slugged Medic’s shoulder. “Good. You always did like the big ones, didn’t you?”

 

“Oh, of course,” Medic chuckled, “but based on the description you gave me, this doesn’t sound too bad. There aren’t very many details, no, but best-case scenario, we’re sitting on the biggest payout of my career, and it’s a milk run. Worst-case scenario, the client doublecrosses us and we go on a city-spanning, potentially globetrotting adventure to track them down, figure out exactly what’s so important about the briefcase, and collect what they owe us.”

 

Heavy suddenly burst out laughing and slapped his knee. “Oh... Oh, Doctor!” he eventually spat out. “Remember Brisbane?”

 

“Oh God, Brisbane! I almost forgot about that!” Medic cackled, hunching over and resting his head in his hand. “Yes, yes... Worst-case scenario, we’ll have another Brisbane on our hands. Ohhh, that was fun. Can you still do that dance?”

 

Heavy’s eyes sparkled, and he clapped his hands once. “Be patient.”

 

Player snapped his fingers twice, then performed some one-handed sign language.

 

“Hm? What’s that?” Medic asked, arching an eyebrow at the rearview mirror.

 

Heavy snorted loudly, then slowed his breathing. “Ayyyy-yi-yi... Player is right. We will go to Brisbane later, Doctor. For now, we have a milk run to go on.”

 

Player pulled the car over into an empty parking lot, found a space and shut off the engine. He quickly exited the car, followed by Heavy, then by Medic. One by one, they walked around to the trunk of the car. Player pulled it open, revealing a large black case. He clapped his hands, rubbed them together briefly, and then quickly tapped a combination into its keypad -- 5704. The lock disengaged, and Player swung the case open. Sure enough, just like the old days, inside was a gigantic cache of weaponry, secured in soft grey custom-shaped foam. Most of it was Mann Co. quality, of course. Heavy spared no expense on these types of things. And especially not on... her.

 

Heavy smiled, reached out with a tender hand and ran his fingers gently down the length of her ammunition casing. He gently rubbed the barrels with his hand, one by one, and slowly reached up to the handles. He held them there for a moment, then gingerly lifted her out of her foam casing. He lifted her up gently, gingerly, and set her gently on the edge of the trunk. He leaned in, slowly blew off what little dust there was, and began to gingerly fasten a pair of straps to her handles.

 

Medic stood back and watched, then let out a faint chuckle. “Hello again, Sasha,” he said, smiling. “It’s been too long.”

 

Heavy said nothing. Instead, he took hold of the straps, picked Sasha up and swung her over over his back. He slipped his arms through the straps, then smiled and stepped away. “Look, don’t touch.”

 

“Yes, yes, I know the rules.” Medic chuckled warmly, then let out a contented sigh. “Ahhh... Just like old times, hm?”

 

“Yes.” Heavy chuckled, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Plus one, of course.”

 

Medic grinned, and glanced back behind him. “Of cou-- oh.”

 

In the time it had taken Medic to look back at the Player, he’d emptied approximately half the case. He wore an SMG on each hip, a pistol in his left back pocket and a .357 magnum in his right. Two bulging ammo pouches were strapped to either leg. A double-barrelled shotgun and an assault rifle were slung over his back, and as Medic looked to him, he slipped on a crossbow. He turned slowly around, revealing that five grenades and five pouches of C4 were strapped to his chest on crossed bandoliers. He twirled a well-worn crowbar in his hand and arched an eyebrow at the doctor, silently daring him to say something.

 

“...no, I think Player here counts for plus three, at least,” Medic remarked, chuckling softly. He grinned, but the grin faded quickly. “...Are you sure you’re going to need all that?”

 

The Player nodded.

 

“He likes to be prepared,” Heavy contributed.

 

“I can see that,” Medic replied. “Well... oh, that reminds me. What am I doing for equipment?”

 

Heavy grinned. “Oh, Doctor. I have a surprise for you.”

 

Player smirked, stepped away and pulled the case to the side. Resting behind the case was a random collection of gauges, dials and equipment assembled into the rough shape of an official Speyrer Medical MediGun. Lying on top of it was a gleaming steel bonesaw, polished to a mirror shine, and an air-powered gun loaded with glinting needles.

 

Medic gasped, then leaped into the air and clapped his hands. “It’s the old gear!” he cried out. He was vaguely aware that he’d clicked his heels on the way down, and it didn’t matter. “You got the old gear! I-- I didn’t know you kept it after I left!”

 

“Of course I kept it,” Heavy replied. “I knew you would need it again.”

 

“Ohhh-ho-ho-ho! Perfect! Thank you!” Medic cackled like a madman, darted up to the trunk and grabbed his gear. He slung the MediGun over his back, strapped the syringe gun to his hip and gripped the bonesaw tightly in his gloved hand. He grinned, whipped around and held the bonesaw up to the air. “How do I look?”

 

Heavy grinned and slammed his fist into his open hand. He rolled his neck hard, cracking it a little, and let out a low laugh. “You look like a mercenary.”

 

“Damned right I do!” Medic laughed, holstered his bonesaw and crossed his arms. “Let’s see if I can still act like one.”

 

“Yes.” Heavy crossed his arms and sighed, staring up at the city lights. “And what is the biggest part of a mercenary’s job?”

 

Medic sighed heavily, rolled his eyes and leaned against the car. “The waiting.”

 

And so, the parking lot lapsed into silence. Cars passed by on the streets behind them, occasionally exchanging honks. Voices overlapped to form a beautiful tapestry. The desert wind howled in the distance. A helicopter passed overhead. Somewhere in the distance, a shot rang out. Sirens blared in the distance, but too quietly to be of any concern. The city was a beautiful symphony, and everyone inside were its instruments. Medic grinned despite himself. For the first time in a while, he felt alive again.

 

“Doctor?”

 

Medic opened his eyes, realized that he’d closed them, and glanced over to Heavy. “Yes?”

 

“With all the excitement, I almost forgot to tell you this,” Heavy said. “Your ganger friend called earlier.”

 

Medic blinked and arched an eyebrow. “Ganger friend?” he repeated. “I don’t have any ganger friends.”

 

“You don’t?” Heavy arched an eyebrow right back. “Alan is not a ganger?”

 

“Alan?” Medic repeated, straightening his spine quickly. “N-No, he really isn’t. Alan’s a legitimate bu... businessman.” He pursed his lips, adjusted his glasses and kicked a piece of gravel. “That didn’t come out right. What I meant was... Alan really did not strike me as the kind of man who would have gang connections.”

 

“Well, his call was interrupted by Demoman,” Heavy started, “so I--”

 

“Demoman?!” Medic repeated, crying out in shock. “Why was he-- Ohhhh, that is not good. The Demoman hates cyborgs... Scheiss, he could be in serious trouble.” He quickly reached into his pocket and fished out his cell phone. “I’d better give him a call, make sure he’s okay. I don’t kn--”

 

Suddenly, the Player clapped his hands three times. As soon as the two of them were looking at him, he held his hand to his ear. Medic and Heavy exchanged a glance, then tuned their ears to the frequency of the city.

 

The helicopter was getting closer.

 

As one, the three mercenaries looked up. Sure enough, a helicopter was descending to the streets beneath them, painted featureless crimson. It floated gently down to the asphalt, rotors still spinning, and stood there for a moment. After a few moments, the door slid open and a man in a featureless beige trenchcoat and fedora stepped out. “Mr. Boleslav,” he shouted over the rotors, “your ride is here!”

 

Heavy didn’t move. Medic didn’t move. The Player didn’t move. The man in the trenchcoat didn’t move. Aside from the whirling of the propellers, the parking lot was completely still. After a few moments, the man in the trenchcoat pressed his finger to his temple. Then he nodded, said something under his breath and lowered his hand again. “Your handler would like to inform you that we’re a few minutes ahead of schedule,” he said, “and she’d like to keep it that way.”

 

Medic stared for a moment, then slowly pocketed his phone again. “I think I’ll call Alan later.”

 

 


	11. Hightower Contract

Slowly, mechanically, the three mercenaries boarded the helicopter. Each of them stepped up to a seat and sat down with varying degrees of hesitation. Heavy gently slipped Sasha off his back and set her down in front of him before sitting down. As soon as they were all aboard, the man in the trenchcoat hopped inside and pulled the door shut again. He handed each of the mercenaries a noise-blocking headset, and one by one, they put them on. That done, he pounded his fist on the ceiling three times. The pilot, wearing a similar hat and trenchcoat, flashed a thumbs-up and took off.

 

“Before we get started,” the first man said into their ears, “I’d just like to wish you the b... no, wait, that’s not...” He hesitated a moment, then pressed his finger to his temple and muttered something under his breath. After a second or two, he nodded and lowered his hand again. “Happy capping, gentlemen.”

 

Without another word, he suddenly reached down and violently pulled open his trenchcoat. Instinctively, the three mercenaries reared back and covered their eyes. Heavy and Medic both cried out in shock. The Player opened his mouth, but no noise came out. “Really?” Medic blurted out. “I know I’ve been out of the game for a while, but is this really how we do things now?”

 

“Hey, folks. Good to see you in the flesh. Except not really. You know what I mean.”

 

One by one, Medic, then Heavy, then the Player lowered their hands and turned to face the man in the trenchcoat. Surprisingly, he was fully clothed underneath it. And even more surprisingly, he had some kind of flashy, off-brand holoprojector strapped to his chest. It shone with violet light, projecting the image of a striking, bespectacled young woman in a business skirt into the helicopter. She sat cross-legged on a tall office chair, smiling warmly at them.

 

“...Oh.” Medic cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “Well, that’s... not what I was expecting.”

 

Heavy crossed his arms and stared the projection right in the eyes. “You are our handler?”

 

“Yep,” the hologram replied, her voice filtering clearly through their headphones. “It’s good to meet you. Don’t bother introducing yourselves, I know your names already. Except for him,” she added, pointing to the Medic, “but there’ll be time for that.”

 

“It’s Medic,” Medic replied, giving the hologram a curt nod. “I don’t suppose you’ll be telling us your name?”

 

“Heh. That’s okay, Medic. You’re new here,” the hologram shot back. “Speaking of which... Heavy, do you think you could explain again why Del Fuego won’t be joining us tonight? Just for the record.”

 

“Del Fuego is loose cannon,” Heavy growled. “He is... impulsive. For op like this one, with big plan, he would do nothing but cause problems. I have run many jobs with Medic. He has saved my life many times. I trust him. The op will go smoother with him here than Del Fuego.”

 

“I’m glad to know we can trust him,” the hologram returned, “but the plan hinges on you having a demolitionist.”

 

“Player is... adaptable,” Heavy replied. “He can take care of it.”

 

The Player nodded, plucked a grenade off his chest and began tossing it like a baseball, staring the hologram right in the eyes.

 

“Well, good.” The hologram pursed her lips and gave the Player a scrutinizing look. “But, look... we’ve put a lot of time and effort into this plan, and we have a lot riding on it. You don’t have any more surprise alterations for us, do you?”

 

“Well, do you?” Medic interjected. “We’re not even supposed to be here today.”

 

“...Touché.” The hologram shrugged, pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and nodded. “Okay. We’ll improvise, then. Now that we’ve established that, let’s get on with the briefing. Your objective tonight is to pull a heist on the central headquarters of Builders’ League United.”

 

The Player gasped, and nearly fumbled his grenade. Aside from being the first noise Medic had heard him make, it was a rough, gravelly sound that cut easily through the chaotic twirling of the rotors. It was... disconcerting, and Medic was unable to suppress a squirm at the sound of it. And that was before he processed what his handler had said.

 

“Our objective is what?” Heavy said. Having known him for many years, Medic was able to pick up on a slight waver in his tone.

 

“You’re going to raid BLU’s HQ and steal valuable intel out from under their nose,” the hologram clarified. “We have reason to believe that they’ll be diverting most of their security force to a surprise attack on RED tonight, so resistance will be low. You’ll be entering through the roof. We’ll guide you as you go. Once you enter the building, you’ll make your way three floors down through the stairwell, enter a specific room, take a briefcase and leave the way you came. We’re not expecting complications.”

 

The three of them fell silent for a moment. Player shook his head, fished around in his pocket for a minute and began to wipe his glasses with a rag. “...Well,” Medic eventually remarked. “That’s... brazen. Admittedly, I’m not sure what I was expecting for a paycheck like this, but still...”

 

“BLU is powerful corp,” Heavy pointed out. “Maybe most powerful, except RED. I know is probably too late to back out, but making BLU my enemy is not smart. You should have told us this is what we are doing.”

 

“Well, we didn’t want there to be any rumblings of this in the underworld,” the hologram explained, “but that’s not really an excuse. We apologize sincerely for keeping you in the dark. Having said that, don’t worry. You’re not going to make an enemy of BLU. We have a trained team of hackers in position to take complete control of the security feed along your route. Your faces won’t be captured on film. All BLU’s going to know is that a red helicopter landed on the roof of their base while they were attacking RED and stole something from them. They’ll assume RED went behind their back, and retaliate accordingly. They’ll never suspect a third party. You’ll get away scot-free.”

 

“If we leave no witnesses,” Heavy pointed out.

 

“My sources tell me that’s not usually a problem for you, Mr. Boleslav.”

 

Medic cleared his throat softly and examined the hologram. “Actually, I’d like to unpack that last part for a moment. They’ll blame RED, and not us... which means we’re not working for RED.” He chuckled, holding his red-gloved hand up to his face and examining it. “Well, now I just feel overdressed.”

 

“Heh... We’re not affiliated with Reliable Excavation and Demolition or any of their subsidiaries, no,” the hologram replied.

 

“Interesting. Who are we affiliated with, then?”

 

The hologram’s eyes flickered to the right for a moment, and then she lowered her head and smiled at Medic. “You’re a very curious man, Medic. We can be curious, too.”

 

“Ah, and now we come to the thinly-veiled threats portion of the evening,” Medic sneered, rolling his eyes. “Wunderbar. I love this part. Let me guess... we have eyes and ears everywhere, we can easily find out who you are, and if you double-cross us we will have no qualms about revealing your identities to BLU?”

 

“Actually,” the hologram replied, “in the time it’s taken us to have this conversation, we’ve already ID’d you, Dr. Heinrich. That’s the problem with taking an actual, legal job, especially at a major biotech firm like Speyrer -- documentation is hard to shed.”

 

The Player shot Medic an odd look.

 

“Hssss. How intimidating,” Medic scoffed. “And what do you intend to do with that information?”

 

“Nothing, actually.”

 

Medic let out a long, heavy sigh. “Yes, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Hey, you brought it up.” The hologram shrugged again. “You don’t have to believe me if you don’t want to. But we have no intention of revealing your name to BLU. If you double-cross us, we’re perfectly capable of handling it in-house. In fact, I’ll probably just kill you myself.”

 

“Oh.” Medic pondered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, at least you’re pragmatic.”

 

“Thanks, I try.” The hologram smiled warmly at Medic. “So, now that we’ve established that, are there any other questions? We should arrive at the LZ any minute now, so if you have any more questions to ask, now would be the time.”

 

The Player raised his hand and began quickly signing out a question.

 

The hologram just stared at him for a moment, slowing growing more and more uncomfortable. “...Um... I’m sorry, I don’t speak ASL,” she eventually said. “I mean... You know what I meant.”

 

Heavy rolled his eyes. “He said, ‘How do we know we can trust you?’”

 

“Oh. Well, if you don’t trust me by this point,” the hologram replied, “I don’t think I have enough time to convince you. Then again, you already got in the helicopter, so I think you trust me enough. Maybe not as much as you’d like... but enough.”

 

The Player considered this for a moment, then shivered and stroked his beard.

 

“Anything else?” The mercenaries lapsed into silence. “No? Okay. See you at the LZ. Keep those headsets on, we’ll be using them to communicate with you. Make us proud out there. We’ll be watching.”

 

The hologram shut off, and the man sitting across from them pulled his trenchcoat shut. He gave them a polite nod, leaned back in his seat and pulled his hat down over his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The three of them sat in silence for what felt like a very long time. Heavy ran his hand gently down Sasha’s barrels, twisting them gently with a series of clicks that were lost in the sound of the rotors. The Player adjusted his glasses and started checking his gear, piece by piece by piece. The Medic sighed softly, pulled out his syringe gun and held it at the ready, staring gently down at it. The rest of the ride passed in silence.

 

After what must have only been a few minutes, the rotors began to slow. Each of the mercenaries readied their weapons of choice. Heavy reached down and grabbed Sasha’s handles, ready to stand up. The Player fished two SMG clips out of his left ammo pouches, grabbed his SMGs and loaded them. The Medic put his syringe gun away, grabbed the nozzle of his MediGun and held it at the ready. The voice of their handler began to funnel into their ears.

 

“Mission begins in ten seconds.”

 

The man in the trenchcoat stood up, gripped the handle of the door, clenched it tightly in his fist...

 

“Five, four, three, two, one...”

 

...and then pulled it open.

 

In a single, fluid motion, the mercenaries sprung to their feet and leapt out of the helicopter. They landed in a simple triangular formation, struck a dramatic pose and charged forward. Medic trained his MediGun on The Player, then Heavy, bathing them both in a soothing red gas.

 

“Thirty yards ahead of you, to the left, there’s a metal door. Blast it open.”

 

Player burst ahead of the pack, sprinting towards the door. Thankfully, Medic’s MediGun had been custom-built for street use, and was considerably lighter than its official counterpart, allowing him to easily step up his pace to keep up. Heavy, meanwhile, just did the very best he could.

 

Player nodded, striding quickly up to the door. Without saying a word, he leaned up to the door and quietly knocked on it a couple of times. He pressed his ear to the cold, uncaring metal, and kept slowly knocking. Medic kept the MediGun trained on him. Heavy approached them, eyes wild, and skidded to a stop. The two of them watched The Player work, saying nothing. Eventually, The Player plucked one of his C4 charges off his bandolier and affixed it to the door. He quickly stepped to the right and took cover on the other side of the meager entrance, waving the other two to follow him. They didn’t need to be told twice.

 

The three of them pressed their backs to the walls and braced themselves. The Player fished a detonator out of his pocket and clenched it in his hand. He gave Medic and Heavy each a quick look. One by one, they flashed him a thumbs-up and pressed their headphones against their ears.

 

The Player nodded, looked down and pressed the button.

 

An explosion shook the roof, ever so slightly. It was only one pre-made hunk of C4 propped haphazardly against a door, but it felt like a calculated blast. The door burst off its hinges, slammed into the brick wall at their backs with a loud and obvious clank, and clattered down into the stairwell. The bricks shook with the momentum, and ancient layers of dust and smog were shaken from their respective surfaces, filtering slowly down onto the shoulders of the three mercenaries.

 

Medic coughed, then laughed. “I like this one. Can we keep him?”

 

The Player rolled his eyes, elbowed Heavy in the stomach, and jerked his thumb in Medic’s direction.

 

Heavy snorted, then shot Medic a conspiratorial glance. “Technically, Doctor,” he said, “this is your trial run.”

 

“Cut the chatter,” interjected their handler. “The clock’s running, people. We don’t have much time.”

 

“Oh, right.” Medic rolled his eyes and pulled out his syringe gun. “Heavy?”

 

“You first.”

 

The Player pulled out his Magnum and held it in front of his face.

 

As one, the mercenaries broke away from the wall. Medic broke right, Heavy broke right and the Player broke left, but they all arrived at the stairwell at the same time. As one, as a well-oiled machine, they advanced down the staircase, weapons pointed at anywhere a hapless BLU security guard could be hiding.

 

“Proceed to floor 72. Enter the hallway and take your third right.”

 

The three of them proceeded down the stairs quickly, as quickly as they could. The only sound was the sound of their footsteps and a rhythmic, cyclical noise of sparking wires. They passed security cameras along every corner, each of them blinking with a conspicuous purple light -- one that none of them could recall ever seeing a camera of that model make before. The three mercenaries took this in, but chose not to comment on it. It was beginning to sink in how high-stakes this job was.

 

Within just a few moments, the three of them had reached Floor 72, as ordered, and began stalking down the hall. The building was dark and unforgiving, lit only by flashing blue emergency lights. An alarm bell rang in the far, far distance. The three mercenaries through a long, unforgiving gauntlet of offices and offices and offices, each one sealed off by a simple wooden door, each one exactly the same as its neighbors save the number glowing faintly on the lit sign above the doors.

 

Heavy peered curiously into one, 72635, as he passed it. “Doctor,” he murmured, clenching Sasha’s handles tightly, “what... What was it like?”

 

Medic smirked, tucking his syringe gun away as they rounded the corner. “It was awful,” he said, pulling out his MediGun and pointing it at Heavy’s torso. “You would have hated it.”

 

“Stop.”

 

Medic scoffed and rolled his eyes. “What, we’re not allowed to have a conversation now? This is not good for morale.”

 

Their handler let out a strange clucking noise. “No, I meant stop walking. You passed a broom closet, right?”

 

The three of them did stop walking. They looked back as one, and sure enough, there was a door labeled BROOM CLOSET just around the corner, to their left.

 

“...Yes,” Heavy said hesitantly.

 

“How did you know that?” Medic asked.

 

“I told you, we’ve hacked their security feed,” the handler replied. “Guards are headed your way. Get in the closet and hide. We’ll let you know when you’re clear. Until then, stay quiet.”

 

The three of them exchanged looks, then quickly advanced to the door. The Player grabbed the handle, holding his revolver at the ready, and opened it a crack. He poked his revolver into the room, then his head, then opened the door the rest of the way and waved them through. They quickly slipped inside the closet and stuck close to the walls -- or tried to. The closet was full to bursting, overstuffed with shelves and cleaning supplies, and was clearly not meant to accommodate three people. They tried to force themselves against the walls, but there wasn’t enough room. They crouched, one by one, ducking their heads beneath the frosted glass.

 

After minutes, long minutes that felt like hours, the sound of boots crunching against shag carpeting rumbled up to their ears like distant thunder. The mercenaries held their breaths and held still, clutching tightly at their weapons. The boots charged up to them... and thundered past without incident. Eventually, they faded into the distance and fell silent.

 

“You’re clear.”

 

The three of them stood up, looked at one another, and shrugged. “Well, that was anticlimactic,” Medic remarked.

 

“The climax only happens if things don’t go according to plan,” their handler replied. “Now, there’s a box of Lazy Purple Dish Soap on the shelf to your left. It’s a lever. Pull it.”

 

“Да,” Heavy said, nodding. He quickly approached the box in question and pulled it. Sure enough, with a sound like a great gust of wind, a wooden door appeared on the far side of the closet, its frosted glass glowing faintly with blue light. “...Oh. Clever. Who uses this room?”

 

“Very clever,” Medic remarked. “What’s this room used for?”

 

“That’s none of your concern,” the handler replied. “The briefcase is in there. There’s a keypad on the door. The passcode is 1111. Enter the room, get the briefcase and head back to the LZ for extraction.”

 

Heavy stepped once towards the door, then stopped and blinked. “...Are you sure that number is right?”

 

“Of course we’re sure,” the handler replied.

 

“Is just, that seems... too easy,” Heavy muttered. “I do not think--”

 

But before he could continue, the Player stepped forward, pushing his way past Heavy, and stood before the wooden door. He rolled his neck once, then quickly jabbed the 1 key on the glowing yellow keypad. Sure enough, the door unlocked with a pneumatic hiss, receded into the wall and slid open, revealing a dark, empty room. The Player took a long, deep breath, then slipped silently into the room, Magnum drawn.

 

“...Oh,” Heavy said. He considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay.” He leveled his gun off, holding it steady, and pressed a button with his thumb. Sasha slowly awoke, the barrels spinning to life with their trademark high-pitched whir. A little shiver went down Medic’s spine when he heard it. He trained his MediGun on Heavy and pushed the lever forward, and slowly, the two of them proceeded into the room.

 

The room was large... cavernous, even. It was about as dark as a cavern, as well. The entire far wall was composed of glass -- a one-way mirror, as was company policy -- but even that was little help. The building was so tall that the gleaming web of city lights below did little to illuminate the room. The only real source of external light came from the building lights illuminating Reliable Excavation and Demolition’s headquarters, looming ominously a few blocks away. The two buildings were exactly the same height, but from this distance, RED looked smaller. Perhaps that was intentional. Perhaps not. Either way, it wasn’t much help lighting-wise.

 

That’s not to say that the room was completely dark, however. There were lights. A strange mishmash of computers and machinery, standing at least nine feet high, was set up on the opposite side of the room, just by the window. Dials, meters and displays were scattered haphazardly across it, each of them giving off an eerie blue light. The upshot of this was that the area in front of the machines was illuminated, ever so slightly, just enough to cast a shadow. The shadow of a desk, behind which sat a tall and imposing office chair that was halfway to a throne. And in front of that desk, there was just enough light to make out the muscled and gun-laden profile of The Player.

 

Heavy crept forward slowly, and Medic close behind him. As they did that, though, The Player turned to face them and waved them forward. His posture was relaxed enough to suggest that caution was not necessary. Medic was unsure what to do, but Heavy only took a couple of moments to drop his guard and spin Sasha down. “What is situation?” he asked.

 

The Player reached down to the desk, pressed an invisible button and switched on a desk lamp. In the newfound light, the desk was revealed. And to the shock of Heavy and Medic both, the half-throne was occupied. A scrawny, shriveled, wrinkled old man sat in the chair, spine straight, fingers intertwined on the desk in front of him, light glinting off his hairless, blotchy scalp. He was clad in a three-piece suit, a striking royal blue over a robin's-egg undershirt. All of it was pressed and ironed to perfection. He sat there, motionless, eyes closed. He gave the impression of a corpse at a wake, except those didn’t usually have as many wires. There were wires everywhere. The old man didn’t have any obvious cyberware, save some bulky ports on his shoulders, but there were wires all over his body, connecting him to the machines, his desk, the chair -- everything.

 

The Heavy started and pointed Sasha back at the old man, but The Player only smiled and waved his hand dismissively. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the corpse, and then drew it swiftly across his throat.

 

The Heavy blinked once, then spun Sasha down again. “Oh,” he said simply. “Did you kill him?”

 

The Player shrugged and quickly signed something to Heavy.

 

“Oh. Good.” Heavy shrugged. “Do you have briefcase?”

 

The Player grinned proudly and turned, showing Heavy the bright blue and surprisingly thick briefcase strapped to his back.

 

“Хорошо!” Heavy boomed, a grin quickly coming to his face. “We have briefcase!”

 

“Wait, what did he say?” Medic asked, peering around Heavy to stare at the wired-up corpse.

 

“Uh, yeah, what did he say?” their handler added. “There aren’t any cameras in there. We can’t see what The Player’s signing.”

 

“Oh, is nothing,” Heavy replied. “He just said, ‘He was dead when I got here.’”

 

“He what?!” their handler blurted out, panicked beyond belief. “You-- G-Get out of there NOW! I don’t know how much time you have until--”

 

There was a loud tick, and then, chaos. The machine roared like a wild animal, and waterfalls of sparks burst from random spots on it. The wires twitched with life... and then, so did the corpse. All of a sudden, the corpse’s eyes snapped open, revealing that they were glowing violently with blue light. The corpse arched its back and threw out its hands, electricity visibly coursing through its age-riddled body, and let out a blood-curdling scream. The Player gasped and snatched his Magnum up from the table, but before he could aim it at the shrieking corpse, it reached out with an atrophied hand and grabbed him by his cuff. It yanked him forward, throwing off his aim significantly, and then wrapped its other gnarled hand around his head. As The Player’s body spasmed and twitched, blue lightning funneling directly into his brain, the corpse growled out:

 

“What the gravel are you doing in my office?”

 


	12. King of the Hill

_Dell’s alive._

 

It was the first thought to go through Tavish’s head when he woke up. All the other, more obvious ones, came afterwards, but that was what came first. _Me head’s killin’ me. Dell’s alive. Did they see my face? Dell’s alive. I can’t believe a scamp like Jackson got the drop on me. Dell’s alive._

 

_I’m gonna die. Dell’s alive._

 

“I’m not gonna die,” he said aloud, and instantly regretted it. He didn’t know where he was, or what the consequences for speaking might be. Speaking without thinking, he’d learned, was actually a very good way to get yourself killed -- or at least, seriously inconvenienced. So he fell silent again, ignoring the searing pain in his face, and tried to feel around his surroundings. He squinted into the darkness, but that produced no viable results yet. He reached up with a shaking hand and pressed it against something. Metal. Hmm. He felt around slightly, trying to get the dimensions right, and... yep, he was in the trunk of a car. Wonderful.

 

But he hadn’t been tied up, he noted. He hadn’t been tied up, put in cuffs, given cement shoes, or... been restrained in any way, really. He’d just been dumped in the trunk of a car. He was still wearing his armor. Hell, they hadn’t even taken his grenades. That was convenient. A little too convenient. Who’d put him in this trunk? Dell? ...No, Dell wouldn’t do something like this... would he?

 

Tavish didn’t want to think about that, and so he didn’t. If not Dell, then, who? Scout? That didn’t make sense, either. By all accounts, he was smarter than that. He was impulsive, sure, but he got into crime for a very specific reason. He had obligations, and he needed to stay out of the slammer -- not to mention, out of the ground -- so he could fulfill them. He wouldn’t take unnecessary risks. He furrowed his brow and scratched his chin, considering his options. Maybe the kid thought he was dead, he mused. Maybe he thought Dell sliced his brain with that nasty chainsaw hand of his, decided he was going to die anyway and started dragging him out into the middle of the woods to hide the body. Yeah, that was a possibility. Or maybe...

 

Suddenly, Tavish realized that he was scratching his chin. He felt up his face for a moment, and yes... it was definitely there. It was covered in dried blood, and there was a large gash in it which conveniently cut right across his empty eye socket, but it was definitely still there. He had a face.

 

And more importantly, he didn’t have a mask.

 

Tavish sighed and laid back on his back. “Bloody hell,” he moaned softly. His hands fell loosely to his sides, and he kicked something he couldn’t see at his feet. He glanced down to see what it was, and in the dark, he could just make out the outline of a wheelchair. Well, Scout was technically a double amputee, so that narrowed the options a little. This was probably Scout’s car. That solved that mystery for now. _And speaking of solved mysteries..._ He sighed heavily, and a throbbing pain went through his head. He grunted softly and tapped the chest of his armor twice. A quick burst of MediGas flowed out of his armor with a pneumatic hiss and sunk into his face -- not enough to stop the pain, but enough to stop any internal bleeding he might have, and keep it from scarring too badly. The pain wasn’t dangerous any more. He could live with it.

 

The car stopped. It was convenient, Tavish thought. He didn’t have as long to wait as he thought he would.

 

It was really starting to get annoying how damned _convenient_ all this was.

 

Still, he laid back and slowed his breathing. He closed his eyes and went limp. He had to pretend to be unconscious, if not dead. Because he was in mortal danger, he reminded himself, and if he didn’t play up to his kidnapper’s expectations, he could very well be--

 

The trunk opened with a faint clunk, and a shadow on the outside quickly retreated. “Alright, Demo, end of the line,” came Scout’s voice, wavering slightly. “Outta the trunk. Nice and easy. Don’t make me do something I’ll re-- _you’ll_ regret later.”

 

Tavish sighed heavily and opened his eye again. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “Okay, I’m up. I’m up.”

 

With a soft and frustrated growl, he forced his way out of the trunk. It was a nice evening, he thought. Scout had driven him out into the middle of a forest -- probably the one on that mountain range to the south of town. Which was, yet again, convenient. It’d be a short walk back to the hospital once he was done here. The desert air was cool and crisp. Nighttime insects chirped cheerily in the distance, surrounding them with the sounds of nature. The moon shone brightly down overhead. It was nice. Or rather, it would’ve been nice if there wasn’t a gun being pointed at him.

 

Scout was standing a safe distance away, aiming a bog-standard Mann Co. pistol right at his exposed face. An angry scowl was plastered across his own. Under normal circumstances, this would be very intimidating... but of course, these weren’t normal circumstances. His eyes darted around as if he expected company, try as he might to rein them in. His aim wobbled slightly, and his scowl was ragged around the edges.

 

The signs were all there. His body language was clear. Scout Jackson knew exactly who he was holding at gunpoint.

 

Tavish sighed again. “Alright. Go on, then. Get it outta your system.”

 

Scout nodded. “Right. Okay. So... we’re in the middle of nowhere. No one knows where you are, nobody’s comin’ for you. And I know who you are. So let’s get straight to business. You’ve got a secret, and I know what it is. If you want me to keep it, there’d better be something damn good in it for me. I want...” And here he paused, staring up at the treetops for a moment. “...ten million dollars a year for the rest of my life.”

 

Tavish rolled his eye. “Demoman doesn’t negotiate with criminals.”

 

“Yeah, but Demoman ain’t here right now,” Scout replied. “All we got is you, Mr. DeGroot. And you don’t do anything but make deals.”

 

“Oh, sure. That and get drunk at boardroom meetings, right?”

 

Scout chuckled, then wiped the grin off his face. “Don’t make me laugh, cyclops. This is serious. The game’s changed now. I got leverage.”

 

“Have you, now?”

 

“Yeah, yeah. First of all, I’ve got a gun,” Scout replied. “People with guns can do whatever they want, and people without guns can do whatever the people with guns want. Plus, more importantly, I know who you are. I’ve got your number, and it’s got a hell of a lotta zeroes on the end.”

 

“So you’re really gonna blackmail me,” Tavish growled, stepping forward. “You’re gonna blackmail... me. ...Y’know, I still think you’re smart, but I don’t think you thought this through.”

 

“You stay back!” Scout snapped, taking a step back and waving his gun threateningly. “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot!”

 

“Well, come on then!”

 

Suddenly, Tavish unclasped a couple of straps at his shoulders and pried his chestplate off his chest. He tossed it aside, making sure the side with the grenades landed upright, and arched his back so that the rest of his armor fell to the ground behind him. That done, he threw his arms out wide, his teeth bared into a vicious growl. Scout’s eyebrows snapped up, and he instinctively leaned away from Tavish. He clearly wasn’t expecting this. Tavish, for his part, growled and continued walking forward.

 

“I’ll make this nice and simple for you, Mr. Jackson. I’m not gonna pay you. And I’m gonna keep walking. The way I see it, that leaves you with two options. Either you shoot me, or you don’t. So if you’re gonna kill me, then save us both some time and do it already! Shoot, coward! You’re only gonna kill a man!”

 

Scout did not shoot. He took a few halting steps back, and Tavish kept advancing towards him.

 

“Except that’s not true, and we both know it.”

 

Scout’s back pressed against a tree. Tavish kept walking, until Scout’s gun tapped against his chest. Tavish looked down, growled, and then continued.

 

“I am Tavish Finnegan DeGroot. I am the CEO of DeGroot Enterprises. I work three jobs. I employ five million people in the continental United States alone. I live in a mansion. I make more money in a day than some people will ever see. And when you have as much money as I do, everything can be bought and sold. I buy and sell politicians like you buy and sell your wee little guns. People with money can do whatever they want, and people without money can do whatever the people with money want. I am one of the wealthiest and therefore most powerful men in the world, and regardless of how you feel about me, if I get shot, I will be sorely missed.”

 

“...But... But, you... you’re like, a philanthropist,” Scout eventually managed to get out, his hand shaking like a leaf in the wind. “Y-You give, like, ten percent of your earnings to charity. You partnered with Conagher Machinery and Cybernetics to give cyberware to injured soldiers after the Scottish Resistance. You spend all kindsa money to rebuild this city after all the gunfights that happen here! You’re... You’re a good guy!”

 

“Oh, aye. I’m such a good guy that I circumvent due process and go out into the streets every night to beat criminals to a pulp with a big bloody broadsword.” Scout shivered. “But right now, you and I are the only ones who know that. If you kill me, all the rest of the world will know is that Tavish Finnegan DeGroot -- world-renowned philanthropist, charity donor, friend to the Independent Scottish Republic and guardian angel of Teufort -- was murdered. I’m a good guy, sure, but can you say that for every member of me security team? I _have_ sponsored several initiatives to give released convicts well-paying jobs and a second chance at life, after all. And even if the people of Teufort _do_ find out I was Demoman, well, you remember that time New Zealand Rising planted a nuclear bomb in the subway? I think this city still owes me one for cleanin’ that up. Do you honestly think they’d be able to sleep until they found the man who killed me?”

 

Scout whimpered softly.

 

“You robbed a Mann Co. supply truck,” Tavish growled through gritted teeth. “That’s gonna bring a lot of heat down on you, and you know it. But y’know, you’re clever. I think you and your friends can weather the storm until that blows over. However... however. You wanna talk about heat? You kill me, and you’ll bring down an apocalyptic bloody firestorm on that little kid’s club of yours. You don’t wanna get them hurt -- you told me as much. You’re not gonna put them all in danger by killin’ me. Besides, what about poor Iris, back in Boston?”

 

Scout’s eyes snapped up, a look of rage suddenly leaping to his face. He let out an enraged grunt and shoved Tavish forward, pointing his gun right at his good eye. “You leave my ma outta this, you bastard!”

 

“Hey, I’m just tryin’ to look out for her,” Tavish growled back. “The point is, you’re not gonna risk your family or your gang for me. I’m not worth the risk. So no, you’re not gonna kill me, which means no, you don’t have leverage. Now... drop the gun, before you do something you’ll regret.”

 

Scout kept pointing the gun at Tavish’s face for a few long moments, panting heavily. He clenched the pistol in his trembling hand for a few long moments... then clicked the safety back on and lowered it. His arm fell loosely to his side, and the gun fell feebly from his bandaged hand.

 

Tavish smirked. “There’s a good lad.”

 

“I...” Scout whimpered, cyberlegs wobbling beneath him like a newborn cyberdeer. “...You’re a monster...”

 

“You started it.” Tavish crossed his arms and scowled at Scout. “Now, are you gonna tell anyone about this, Scout?”

 

“...N-No...” Scout shuddered visibly and sunk slowly to his knees. “...Jeez, man... I like Demoman a lot more than Tavish DeGroot...”

 

Tavish let out a heavy sigh and turned around, walking slowly off towards the car. He placed his hands on the edge of the open trunk and stared down into it, saying nothing for a few moments. Eventually, though, he managed to break the silence.

 

“You’re not alone.”

 

Silence fell over the woods for a few minutes. The insects kept on chirping, the moon kept shining, and the two of them kept standing there. There was a long, unforgiving pause where neither of them moved, spoke... hell, they barely dared to breathe.

 

Eventually, though, Tavish stood up and rolled his shoulders. “...So. I guess you’re gonna need to head back into town, eh?”

 

“...Yeah,” Scout said after a moment. “I’ll, uh... I’ll just go home. I... you need a lift, man?”

 

“Nah,” Tavish replied. “I’ve got... well, I’ve got a place I can go, not far from here. I’ll have someone pick me up.”

 

“...Yeah... You do that...” Scout shuddered, slowly glanced around and fished in his pocket for his keys. “...I’ll just... what the?”

 

Tavish’s head snapped up. There was something coming. An engine roared in the distance, growing closer by the second -- and him without his sword. He darted over to where he’d dropped his armor and grabbed one of the grenades off of it. He checked the bottom quickly, and caught sight of the words “TEAR GAS” engraved along the bottom. Good. He could work with that. “Incoming!” he barked out. “Get to cover!”

 

Scout did not get to cover. Instead, he stared off into the woods for a few moments, then yelped and grabbed his pistol off the ground. He ran backwards, firing blindly into the woods, until he ran out of ammunition. He ejected his clip and reached into his pocket for a replacement. He leapt blindly into the air, swung his legs to the side and propelled himself to the left in a wild and actually somewhat graceful maneuver.

 

An instant later, a US Army-issue armored personnel carrier with a spiked circle insignia spray-painted on its side burst from the underbrush, much faster than you’d expect a vehicle that large to be able to go. It soared through the air with shocking speed and, despite Scout’s best efforts, clipped his foot. Scout yelped again as a jolt of artificial pain shot up his spine, sparks leaping from his damaged foot. The carrier slammed into the forest floor and skidded to a stop with a loud screech, and Scout tumbled wildly through the air before slamming into the forest floor himself.

 

“Scout!” Tavish cried out, charging forward quickly. “Scout! You alright, lad?”

 

“My LEG!” Scout shouted, rolling onto his back and clutching his dented, sparking ankle. “You broke my leg, you bastard! Do you have any idea how much it costs to get this thing serviced?! I’m gonna freakin’--”

 

But before Scout could say exactly what he was gonna freakin’ do, a hatch opened on the top of the carrier and a man scrambled out. The man wore an air traffic controller’s headset over a short-cropped flat top which he’d very obviously dyed black, and there was a cresent-shaped scar over his left eye. Those were the only distinguishing things about his face, though. The rest of it was concealed by a pair of dark aviators and a bright blue bandana. As for the rest of him, he was clearly ex-military, considering the way he carried himself and his impressive musculature -- not to mention his tight-fitting and inexplicably blue military fatigues with buttoned pouches on the front, his camo-patterned pants, the pair of dark-brown tanker’s boots that occasionally flashed with blue light strapped to his feet, and the two frag grenades strapped to his chest. The man didn’t waste any time. He clapped his hands once, pointed to Tavish, and shouted over Scout. “Where is your intercom, Tavish?”

 

“Jane, what the hell?!” Tavish shouted back, gesturing wildly to Scout. “You broke the kid’s leg! What, were you tryin’ to run him over? Do we need to talk about this again?”

 

“We do not have time to talk about anything!” Jane shot back. “BLU’s moving on RED! They mobilized ten minutes ago!”

 

Tavish’s eyebrows shot up. “Wha-- You told me that wasn’t until next week!” he blurted out.

 

“I was wrong!” Jane spat. “The fighting’s already spread across three city blocks, and emergency workers are taking casualties! We need you back in Uptown doing damage control! Get in the car, maggot!”

 

“Yeah, on me way!” Tavish blurted out, scrambling towards the back of the carrier. “I’m gonna need another set of armor, though!”

 

“I thought of that,” Jane snapped. “Considering I’ve been trying to raise you for half an hour and you didn’t respond, I thought you might need a spare.”

 

“Uh -- hey! Where are you goin’? Who’s he? You can’t just leave me here!” Scout blurted out.

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that, son!” Jane sneered, pointing vigorously to Scout. “You’ve seen his face, and we can’t let you walk free yet. You’re going in the trunk until we figure out what to do with you!”

 

Tavish stopped in his tracks. “Uh, Jane, I don’t think that’s--”

 

“Do you want to talk about strategy and ethics, or do you want to stop the corporate crossfire?!” Jane snapped. “You cannot do both at once!”

 

“I...” Tavish hesitated for a moment, then sighed and walked back over to Scout. “Yeah, he’s right. Or maybe he’s not right, but I don’t have any better ideas. You’d better do what he says, lad,” he said, extending his hand.

 

“Hey, screw you both!” Scout blurted out, trying to haul himself to his feet. “I’m not goin’ anywhere with that crazy bastard! I’ll just... drive home... on my...” He looked down at his sparking right foot, and his eyes glazed over quickly. “...broken gas-pedal foot. Crap.”

 

“Yeah, I guess tonight isn’t goin’ like you thought it would, eh?” Tavish chuckled, a weak smile coming to his face. “Look... I gotta go take care of this. But once we’re done here, I’ll give you a ride home. Hell, I’ll call a limo for you if you want. Whaddaya say?”

 

“...I...” Scout considered this for a moment, then sighed heavily and grabbed Tavish’s hand. “Fine. But I gotta call my mechanic once we’re done.”

 

“I know a thing or two about cybernetic repair,” Tavish put forth, hauling Scout to his feet. “I’m not a professional or anything, but I’ll see if I can patch you up on the ride over.”

 

Scout blinked. “Really?” he said, seeming genuinely surprised.

 

Tavish smiled warmly, draped Scout’s arm over his shoulder and dragged him towards the back of the carrier. “Yeah. It’s the least I can do. It shouldn’t be a problem, so long as Jane doesn’t crash the bloody car again.”

 

“We do not have time to argue about whose fault that was!” Jane snapped. “Get in the trunk, ladies! We’re burning moonlight! Move, move, move!”

 

“Hey, we might be able to go faster if you didn’t break the kid’s leg!” Tavish chuckled, rolling his eye.

 

“Blow me, rich boy!” Jane shot back, climbing back into the carrier.

 

The two of them had reached the back of the vehicle by that point, and after just a few moments, the door lifted up and open. The back of the carrier, it turns out, had been outfitted with a surprising amount of supplies -- a couple of fancy computer terminals, a rack of pill grenades and various types of trick bombs, an ambulance-issue stretcher and ceiling-mounted MediGun, and a wooden mannequin fitted out with medieval plate armor.

 

Scout chuckled softly despite himself. “Heh... So, this is what the inside of the Demomobile looks like, huh?”

 

“Don’t call it that,” Tavish chuckled. “Strap in, lad. This is gonna get bumpy.” He pounded hard on the roof with his fist and grinned a vicious grin. “GET GOIN’!”

 

The carrier’s door slammed shut with a loud metallic clang. The engine roared like a wild animal. Jane, up in the driver’s seat, let out a wild, primal scream and flattened the gas pedal. A gout of flame leaped from the exhaust pipe, and the vehicle sped off into the night -- out of the woods, back towards Neo Teufort. The mood in the car in that first visceral moment, despite everything, was one of excitement. The city was in peril again, and it was up to them to fix it.

 


	13. A Wrench in the Gears

The Player’s screams were rough and hoarse, yet powerful. His arms flailed wildly, pounding randomly on the desk. He was in pain -- that much was obvious. Intense, agonizing pain. His skin smoked and sizzled, and lightning arced between him and the living corpse. Heavy and Medic charged forward instantly, in unison. Medic trained MediGun on The Player and pushed the lever forward. The crimson gas flowed forth and sunk into The Player’s flesh, healing his wounds as soon as they appeared. Heavy, meanwhile, reached out with a beefy hand and grabbed The Player’s shoulder, hauling him forcefully out of the old man’s grip.

 

“You do not touch my friends, dead man!” Heavy roared.

 

“Feh!” the corpse snarled back, drawing its wrinkled hands across its lap. “It’s a perfectly legitimate question! I... wait...!” The corpse slowly tilted its head down, stared at the empty spot where the briefcase had been for a moment, then roared and slammed its gnarled fists onto its desk. “Thieves! THIEVES! Get your grimy mitts off my property, you filthy ground-floor reprobates!” The corpse jabbed a previously-unseen intercom with a long, bony finger and shrieked hoarsely into it. “Call back the security teams! We’re under attack! This order comes straight from the top!”

 

“No witnesses, Heavy!” Medic shouted, hauling the still-screaming Player back towards the door. “Player--? Player, for God’s sake, calm down!”

 

“No witnesses,” Heavy repeated, aiming Sasha at the old man’s face.

 

“Wait! There’s no time! Get back to the LZ!” shouted their handler.

 

“Do not worry,” Heavy replied with a smirk. “I kill quick.”

 

Sasha began to spin up, whirring her trademark whir. But before she could get off a shot, the old man lifted his fist and slammed it into the arm of his chair. With a great flash, a great circle of glowing cerulean light snapped into existence around his desk, stretching from floor to ceiling. Sasha roared, spraying untold quantities of lead, spewing shell casings in a glorious spray... but not a one found their mark. They collided with the shimmering energy barrier and simply bounced off, causing beautiful ripples all along it.

 

Before Heavy could catch on to what was happening, the old man shoved his desk, sending his chair rolling backwards and clattering against the machines behind him. He slammed his gnarled, bony finger into the other arm of his chair, and a headset mic slipped out of the chair and curled around his head. “Initiate Mannpower Protocol!” he spat into it. “Voice-print authorization: This is Blutarch Mann, you creaking rust-bucket, and as long as my name’s on your lease you’ll damn well do what I tell you!”

 

Heavy suddenly spun down Sasha and stumbled backwards like he’d been shoved. “Is who?!” he blurted out. “Is-- Is not possible!”

 

Medic stopped in his tracks and snapped his head back around. “W-Wait, did he just say--?”

 

The Player clutched at his head, sunk down to his knees and screamed in utter terror.

 

And as for the gnarled old man... the floor opened up beneath him with a loud mechanical whir. Slowly, ominously, a gigantic hulk of blue-painted steel began to rise out of the floor. It stopped just at the old man’s feet, too deep for anyone to see what it was. The old man pulled himself slowly forward, grunting with exertion, and fell limply into the hole that had just been opened, out of sight. The wires sticking out of his aged body began to slowly retract, one by one. And once he was gone from sight and the wires had all retracted, slowly, steadily, the mountain of metal continued to rise...

 

Heavy stared at this for a moment, then quickly turned around and sprinted towards Medic. “Op is going sideways, Doctor!”

 

“Well, if the job was easy...” Medic donned a hideous grin, gripped his right glove firmly between his fingers and pulled on it tightly. He lowered his head slightly, and the cerulean light flashed off his glasses. When he continued, his voice had dropped by at least an octave. “...it wouldn’t be any fun.” He released the glove, and a loud snap of rubber rang out through the office, over the sounds of shifting metal and whirring actuators.

 

“Is all fun and games until someone loses an arm!” Heavy replied, skidding to a stop. “We must all go to extraction point!”

 

“Well, sure, when you put it that way,” Medic chuckled, kneeling down and hauling The Player to his feet. “I’ll just-- nggh! Oh dear, this might be a problem. Heavy, assistance, bitte?”

 

“My... hands are full, Doctor,” Heavy replied, glancing down at the powerful gun still clenched in his fists. “I may need them to fight our way out of here, now that Player is...” He hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “Will he be okay?”

 

“I think so. He’s just... well, he received an electrical shock directly to the brain. He’s probably a little shaken. Player? Player, can you hear me?” Medic grunted, eventually pulling The Player to his feet and gave him a calm, analytical look with as much of a smile as he could muster. “Player, it’s time to go now. Are you okay?”

 

The Player screamed again, ripped off his glasses and started trying to claw his eyes out.

 

“I don’t think he’s okay!” Medic shouted, grabbing his wrists in an attempt to restrain them.

 

“Ohhh, this is bad,” Heavy groaned.

 

“Excuse me!” interjected their handler. “I hate to interrupt, but you all need to get back to the LZ now!”

 

“Oh, you’re still here?” Medic chuckled. “Just as well. I was going to ask, what in God’s name did you sign us up for? There’s a man in here who claims to be Blutarch Mann!”

 

“We can explain everything once you’re out of danger!” their handler snapped. “Now MOVE!”

 

“We’re coming! We’re coming!” Medic snapped. “We just have to corral The Player here. He’s been injured severely. He’s stable, but he’s panicking and I think he might have suffered neurological damage. He’ll need more serious medical attention than I can provide in the field. Is there a place we can take him where he can receive treatment?”

 

“Who cares?!” their handler replied. “Just leave him and go!”

 

“No!” Heavy roared. “Player is friend! I do not leave friends behind!”

 

“He’s just going to slow you down!” their handler pointed out.

 

The Player screamed again.

 

“If it’s any consolation, we’re usually pretty slow anyway, and it hasn’t stopped us before,” Medic replied. “Okay, here’s the plan. I don’t have any sedatives on me, so you knock him out, and I’ll carry him to the helipad on my shoulders, presumably through a hail of gunfire.”

 

Heavy’s eyes lit up. “Like Hong Kong?”

 

“Exactly like Hong Kong,” Medic grinned, plucking The Player’s glasses off his face, “only with less weed.”

 

“This is fine.” Heavy set down Sasha, cracked his knuckles and raised his fist. “I am sorry, Player. Is for your own good.” Without further ado, Heavy reared back and punched The Player in the face. The Player’s head snapped back, and he fell limp quickly.

 

“Stupendous!” Medic replied, grabbing The Player’s prone body and holding him over his shoulders. “Nnk! Oh, wow, he’s heavy. This man has too many guns.”

 

“Can you get him safe?” Heavy asked, gingerly picking Sasha up again.

 

“I should be able to, yes,” Medic replied, tucking The Player’s glasses into his pocket, “provided nothing unexpected happens.”

 

**“Ah, there’s the clutch!”**

 

Heavy and Medic blinked, exchanged a look, and then slowly turned back towards the desk. In the time it had taken them to have their conversation, a large, hulking tower of steel in the rough shape of an over-muscled man had risen up from the floor of the old man’s office. Every square inch of its form was painted some form of blue, except for the beautiful mural of Builder’s League United’s company logo painted across its chest. Every motion it made resulted in a whir of actuators or a simple beep ringing out across the office. The thing had obviously been designed for combat prowess over practicality -- its hands looked like they would be more at home on industrial machinery, and would be able to crush a man’s skull like an egg if it got close enough. But it was unlikely it would ever need to get close enough, considering its wrist-mounted chainguns and shoulder-mounted rocket launchers. It clenched its mighty, three-clawed hands into fists and slammed them into each other, causing its every joint to glow ominously with an uncanny golden light. This light revealed a single word stenciled across its right tricep in white, blocky text: “R.A.D.I.G.A.N. MK01”

 

 **“Thank you all for sticking around while I put this thing on. That was very considerate,”** the old man shouted through his speakers. **“Now... stay perfectly still, and we can be done with this in time for me to get some actual damned sleep.”**

 

Heavy looked up and down the machine’s considerable height for a long moment, then turned towards the door and ran. “Is time to go!” he bellowed.

 

“I couldn’t agree more!” Medic shouted, grabbing his MediGun and following after him.

 

 **“NO, YOU STUPID POOR PEOPLE!”** With a vicious scraping of steel and chorus of robotic beeps, the machine lurched to life. It grabbed the desk in front of it and hurled it aside like it was made of styrofoam. With a loud and ominous whir, it took a single ominous step forward... and then immediately toppled onto its face. **“Ow! Ow! Aaaaugh, my legs! I haven’t walked in years! Why did I think this was a good idea? Help, help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”**

 

Heavy and Medic stopped in their tracks just before reaching the closet door, looked back at the robot behind them, and then burst out laughing. They opened the door and turned left down the hallway, paying no mind to the office they left behind. “Ohhhh... That’s So Blutarch will be right back after this word from our sponsors!” Medic cackled.

 

“What the hell is going on up there?” their handler shouted in their ears.

 

“Ohhh, you missed it.” Heavy snorted, then let out a shaky sigh. “Dead man had robot, but it fell. He will not be chasing us.”

 

“Ohhh, that’s going to make one hell of a war story,” Medic chuckled. “Oh, you killed a criminally insane special-ops cyborg with your bare hands? That’s nice. We fought the ED-209!”

 

“...Okay,” their handler said anxiously. “Uh, I see you’re not... actually fighting it. That’s good. The R.A.D.I.G.A.N. is powered by a nuclear reactor, so not engaging it is the smart move.”

 

“Oh.” Heavy’s eyes went wide, and he quickened his pace slightly. “I-I am glad you told us that.”

 

“Yes, you’re welcome,” their handler replied. “But more to the point, you still need to get out of there quickly, because it’s got--”

 

Suddenly, there was the sound of whirring actuators and the sound of something heavy crashing through drywall. **“I found the autopilot!”** the old man boomed in the distance. **“Ahhh, gravelpits, you are in for it now!”**

 

“Get to the LZ!” shouted their handler.

 

“Jawohl!”

 

“Very well!”

 

Heavy and Medic took off running down the hall. The sounds of grinding actuators and heavy, stomping footsteps sounded behind them, coming steadily closer. Medic grunted, adjusting The Player’s position on his shoulders, and the two of them rounded the corner to the left. There were no words. There was no time -- and even if there had been, there wouldn’t be anything to say. They just ran, lugging their respective cargoes along with them, tearing down the hallways like their lives depended on it. The door leading into the stairwell at the end of the hall loomed in the distance, and it seemed impossibly far... but only for a few moments. Soon enough, the door was right in front of them. Medic sprinted forward, grabbed the doorknob with one hand and twisted it.

 

The second he put his hand on the knob, the sound of heavy, mechanical whirring sounded off behind them. Medic shoved the door open and darted inside, and Heavy leapt after him. Medic slammed the door shut, and an instant later, the sound of heavy machine-gun fire roared down the hallway towards them. Bullets thudded noisily into the wall behind them, and punch through the door like it was made of cardboard. Medic yelped and leapt away from the door. He felt a bullet rip through the fabric of his trenchcoat, just above his hip. He gasped, then darted towards the stairs. “Schnell! Raus, RAUS!” he barked, pointing up and twirling his finger urgently.

 

“Yes!” Heavy agreed, barreling after him.

 

“Contact!” barked an ambiguously American voice from somewhere below them. “Let’s move, people!”

 

“Security’s headed up the stairwell!” their handler announced. “Stick close to the outside wall!”

 

Heavy glanced over his shoulder and looked Medic in the eyes. They shared a bloodthirsty grin and a sinister chuckle. Again, there were no words. There was no need for them.

 

The two of them charged up the stairs as fast as their legs could carry them, as if Death Itself was snapping at their heels. Because, of course, it was. Medic pulled his arms in slightly, pulling the Player’s dangling limbs tighter against his body, and trained his MediGun on the Heavy. He just had time to push the lever forward, engulfing him once more in soothing red gas. Heavy, meanwhile, clutched Sasha tightly in his hands and charged forward, panting and snarling like a bull. They heard the rapid clomping of footsteps below them, and they stepped up their pace to match. They charged forward, up and around the stairwell until the darkened sky was in sight once more. With one last final surge, they burst out of the shattered doorway and back out onto the roof... and then quickly skidded to a stop.

 

“Uh oh,” Heavy blurted out.

 

Ten security guards, clad in bright blue kevlar and plastic, stood in a semicircle around the door, cutting off the mercs’ route to the empty helipad. Each of them had a ring of ephemeral blue particles radiating slowly outwards from their feet -- the telltale sign of a recent teleportation. Their armaments varied between them -- shotguns, assault rifles, SMGs, one of them even had an RPG -- but all the weapons were pointed directly at Heavy and Medic.

 

One of them stepped forward, clenching her shotgun in her hands, and tapped the side of her helmet. **“You are completely surrounded!”** she bellowed, her voice amplified by invisible speakers. **“Drop your weapons, drop the corpse, and place your hands behind your head!”**

 

Medic cleared his throat awkwardly and shrugged his shoulders, sending The Player’s unconscious body tumbling to the ground. Aside from that, neither he nor Heavy moved. They certainly didn’t drop their weapons. Medic hesitated a moment, then slowly down at his MediGun, still trained on Heavy. There were three dials affixed to the side, slowly climbing. Medic nodded faintly and took a tiny step forward. “Misha,” he hissed, “play along for a while. I can get us out of this.”

 

“Yes, Doctor,” Heavy rumbled, slowly sinking to his knees. Without further ado, he slowly knelt down and set Sasha on the roof. “If you hurt her,” he said to the guards, “I will kill you!”

 

 **“You too, doc!”** the head guard shouted, thrusting her shotgun forward. **“Drop the gun! Don’t try anything funny!”**

 

“What gun?” Medic shot back, squeezing the handles of his MediGun. “I don’t have a gun! I’m a doctor! Haven’t you ever heard of the Hippocratic Oath?”

 

 **“Put it down!”** the corpsec snapped. **“I’m not going to ask you again!”**

 

Suddenly, there was the sound of a shotgun being cocked just behind Medic’s head. He glanced over his shoulder, only to see two more blue-tinted corpsec standing at the top of the stairs behind him, shotguns aimed at his back. “You heard the lady,” one of them snarled, foot resting firmly on the unconscious Player’s chest. “Put down the proton pack and put your hands on your head.

 

“Wh-- It’s a MediGun!” Medic snapped back. “I’m holding a MediGun! My friend was shot by a chaingun during his escape, and he needs medical attention!”

 

“Nice try, wiseguy,” the corpsec growled. “Floor 72 is all office space. We don’t even have any Sentries up there. There’s no chaingun he could get shot by. Now drop the weapon before someone gets hurt.”

 

Medic blinked, furrowed his brow for half a moment, then theatrically rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a weapon!” he shot back. “I’m a doctor! I’m carrying a MediGun! It doesn’t hurt people, it dispenses MediGas! It heals injuries! It is literally the opposite of a weapon! How the hell do you kill somebody with a MediGun?”

 

As if in response, the backpack portion of the MediGun suddenly let out a loud crackling noise. A ball of red electricity began to spark and swirl around in an ephemeral ball in front of the nozzle. Heavy rolled his neck and cracked his knuckles. Medic, in response, prodded him with the barrel of his gun. _“Shh,”_ he hissed. _“Not yet.”_

 

 **“What’s it doing?”** the leader snapped. **“Why is it sparking like that?”**

 

“Ach, damn... It’s custom. The design isn’t perfect,” Medic shot back. “It tends to break down sometimes. Like when it catches a bullet from a giant robot, for example!”

 

There was a brief pause after that. A couple of the faceless corpsec officers exchanged featureless glances. **“...What are you talking about?”** the leader eventually asked.

 

Medic blinked, fell silent for a few moments, then let out a low and sinister chuckle. “Wait... you don’t know?”

 

“What are you playing at, Heinrich?” asked their handler.

 

“You don’t know about the robot?” Medic continued, trying not to smirk and failing. “But it’s rampaging through Floor 72 of your central headquarters. It’s got BLU’s logo painted on its chest. Hell, the pilot said his name was Blutarch Mann. Now, obviously, he’s not Blutarch Mann -- he’d be what, 150 years old? But the fact remains, he obviously wanted us to think he was working for your company. And yet, you’ve never heard of him. You’re BLU’s internal security, and you must be the best of the best. After all, the execs would obviously leave their best and brightest behind to guard the building while everyone else assaulted RED, to make sure no one went behind their backs. But you don’t know about the giant robot that bears your company’s insignia... which suggests to me that BLU doesn’t actually have a giant robot.”

 

The leader fidgeted slightly. **“...No, we don’t have a giant robot,”** she said haltingly.

 

Medic smirked and lowered his head, resisting the urge to chuckle madly. “Well, if it’s not yours,” he replied, “then whose is it?”

 

Suddenly, there was a bright blue flash of light, and Heavy and Medic’s new friend blinked into existence on the helipad. **“I knew this blasted thing had an on-board teleporter somewhere!”** screeched its pilot. **“Now where was I... oh, yes!”** Then, screaming in rage that would be feeble if not for the hulking giant exoskeleton, the R.A.D.I.G.A.N. barreled down across the roof towards the mercenaries.

 

Everything started to happen very quickly after that.

 

The corpsec officers whirled around and, upon seeing a giant robot barreling towards them with chainguns spinning up on its wrists, quickly shifted priorities. **“Oh, GOD!”** the leader shouted, diving for cover. **“Shoot! Just shoot!”** And open fire they did. The ten corpsec units in front of them broke their semicircle, dove for cover and began to fire at the robot. But the other two chose a different option. As one, they leveled their shotguns at Medic and fired.

 

Medic stumbled forward, crying out in shock and pain as the bullets rocketed into his back. A good portion of them hit his back-mounted MediGun and were deflected, or at least slowed down. The shock was incredible and immediate, but somehow, Medic didn’t die. He slammed his foot down into the roof, snarled and pulled an improvised trigger he’d fashioned to the barrel of his MediGun.

 

The effect was immediate. The amount of gas pouring from the nozzle practically doubled, and yet more gas began to flow out of pre-made vents in the pack. Medic and Heavy were both engulfed in powerful waves of MediGas, whisking them to the peak of physical health and beyond. Medic felt his spine knit itself back together in less than a second, and for an encore, his body spat out the buckshot like a child refusing his vegetables. “Behind us!” he spat. “Schnell! Go get them!”

 

Heavy dropped to one knee, grabbed Sasha and hauled her back into the air. With a vicious cry, he whirled around and spun her up. Medic just had time to dive out of the way, somersaulting across the roof, before Sasha began to roar and spit a powerful spray of lead. “NOW IS COWARD KILLING TIME!” Heavy screamed, making himself heard easily above her. The two guards didn’t have time to reply. They did get off a couple of shots at Heavy, but the buckshot practically bounced off his skin. Heavy’s bullets were much more effective. They punched through the guards’ armor and sent them stumbling clumsily backwards. At that range, they were dead before they hit the ground -- which was just as well, because they broke their spines in several places when they fell down the stairs.

 

The robot, meanwhile, skidded to a stop and threw its mighty arms up over where its face would be if it had a head. **“What are you doing?!”** it screeched. **“This is Blutarch Mann, you wretched imbeciles! Stop shooting me! I am your employer, and you are violating your contract!”**

 

Medic grinned and knelt down. He quickly scooped The Player up onto his shoulders and quickly refocused the MediGun’s beam on Heavy -- just as, with a faint sizzle and clunk, the MediGas output returned to normal. “I think they’ll be busy for a while,” he quipped.

 

Heavy spun down Sasha and laughed, quickly darting towards the back of the stairwell. Medic followed him, and the two of them quickly took cover behind it. Just as their backs hit the wall, they heard a vicious roar of servos and machinery, and heard the chainguns spinning back up. **“Very well, then,”** spat Blutarch, if that was indeed his real name. **“YOU’RE ALL FIRED!”**

 

As the sounds of vicious battle raged on in the background, the two exchanged a glance. “How did you know robot would be here?” Heavy asked.

 

“I didn’t,” Medic sneered. “I was trying to split their forces so we could take the rest of them out when I overloaded the MediGun, but... this also works.”

 

“It does,” Heavy agreed. “Is good plan.”

 

“Danke schön,” Medic replied. “Now, then... Hello, handler? Where’s our ride out of here?”

 

“It’s on its way.”

 

As if on cue, the helicopter rose up over the side of the building in front of them, swished over to the side and came to a rough landing on the roof. The door slid open, revealing the man in the trenchcoat crouched in the center, a sleek black sniper rifle aimed out at the fight. “Come on!” he shouted, waving them over.

 

Heavy and Medic took off running, one after the other. The beautiful chaos of explosions and scattered gunfire rang out in the background as they ran. An RPG shot randomly into the sky and flew over the stairwell in a beautiful arc, landing hard on the roof behind them. Heavy and Medic were well clear of the blast by that point, though, so all it accomplished was causing an explosion for them to run away from. They leapt into the helicopter one after another -- Medic first, then Heavy. As soon as they were in, the man in the trenchcoat slammed the door shut and pounded twice on the roof. The helicopter took off with a violent jerk, and shot into the night sky.

 

Heavy, panting heavily, set down Sasha and collapsed in his seat. Medic set The Player gently in his chair and placed his hand on his heart. “...We did it, Kamerad!” he cheered, flashing Heavy an energetic thumbs-up.

 

“You did,” their handler replied. “Good job, you two. That was... not what I would’ve done, but it seems to have worked. And I won’t deny it was clever. You’ve done an admirable job. Pat yourselves on the back. We’re going home.”

 

“Mm... And where is home, exactly?” Medic asked, quickly sitting down.

 

“We’re taking you to a secure location where your friend can receive treatment,” their handler replied. “Of course, we’re not going to tell you where it is, but rest assured that you’ll be well compensated when we get there.” There was a soft clicking from her end of the line, and then she fell silent.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” the man in the trenchcoat said, reaching into said trenchcoat and fishing around. Medic instinctively reached into his own trenchcoat and came out with a bonesaw. Thankfully, the man came back with a couple of black blindfolds. “Hand back those intercoms and put these on,” he said to them. “Also, Dr. Heinrich... put that down, please. The mission’s over. You’re perfectly safe.”

 

Suddenly, something slammed into the side of the helicopter.

 

“What the--?!” Medic blurted out, brandishing his bonesaw wildly. “Are we not done? Is there going to be a swarm of helicopters chasing us that we have to shoot down?”

 

“The R.A.D.I.G.A.N.’s throwing bodies at us!” the pilot shouted.

 

“Then get out of here, before he remembers he has guns!” Heavy shouted.

 

“Orders recieved, ma’am,” the pilot replied. “Proceeding to dropoff point Tango Charlie.”

 

The helicopter pitched to the left, and the mercenaries fell silent. But that’s not so say that anything else did. The chopper’s rotors roared loudly, and something thumped audibly against the floor. But even more than that, the R.A.D.I.G.A.N. screamed in the distance, somehow making itself heard above the roar of the chopper. As the mercenaries flew off into the night, they heard one final cry from the robot’s pilot, a soul-rending scream of pure rage and bloody vengeance that seemed to echo over the entire city.

 

**“UUAAAAAAAAAGH! REDMOOOOOOOOND!”**

 


	14. #SorrySacksOfScum

Tavish let out a heavy sigh and scratched his head with his soldering iron. "Okay... all cards on the table. This might not have been me best idea."

 

Scout clutched at his broken, sparking foot and hauled it away from Tavish’s hands. "YA THINK?" he shouted through gritted teeth.

 

"I'm real sorry, lad," Tavish said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I... really thought I could do this."

 

"Why?!" Scout snapped, slamming his fist on the stretcher for emphasis. "You're Tavish DeGroot! You’re the freakin' Demoman! You're not auged! You're not a mechanic! You won't even get that eye replaced! Why would you know how to fix a cyberleg? Why did I agree to go along with this? This is stupid!"

 

Tavish cringed and scratched at the edge of his eyepatch. "O-Okay, look," he muttered. "I know I'm maybe not the best person for this, but I thought I could help."

 

"Well, obviously freakin' not!" Scout shouted randomly through gritted teeth. "I mean, like... holy crap, dude, I think you made it worse. Are you drunk again?"

 

"Hey, it's not that bad, alright?" Tavish said, waving his soldering iron for emphasis. "I mean, I can fix machines. I like to tinker. I l--"

 

"TINKER?!" Scout blurted out. "This is a complex piece of machinery! It's attached to my body and I don't even know how the hell it works! I mean, Al didn't exactly print me up a manual for this thing! You don't tinker with augs! Like, if you were gonna get surgery, you wouldn't want your doctor to cut you open and say, 'Whoa, that's different! I wonder what that thing does!' You don’t tinker with things that are attached to you! You don't--"

 

Suddenly, the carrier slammed on its brakes. Scout, naturally, tumbled backwards off the stretcher and slammed hard into the cold metal floor beneath him. Tavish stumbled forward and dropped the soldering iron, sending it clattering away underneath a rack of securely fastened grenades. He caught himself on the stretcher. Scout wasn't so lucky. "AAAK! OHHH GOD, MY LEG!" he screamed, clutching his leg. "AAAGH! WHY WAS I PROGRAMMED TO FEEL PAIN?!"

 

Jane, meanwhile, leapt out of the driver's seat and stomped into the passenger section. He grabbed Scout with one hand, hauled him up and slammed him bodily into the wall of the car. "I cannot concentrate on the road when you're yelling!" he bellowed. "We are in a forest! There are trees everywhere! I need to have precise control over this vehicle or I will crash it! Do not make me turn this car around!"

 

"Jane, what're you doing?" Tavish blurted out, grabbing his sword from the rack. "Put him down!"

 

"Wh-- I'm in pain!" Scout blurted out. "Maybe I'd be able to keep quiet if you didn't hit me with a damn tank!"

 

"First of all, it's an APC, not a tank, and secondly, you still have to do your part to keep us out of more danger!" Jane slammed Scout into the wall again to emphasize his point. "Stop screeching and bite the bullet!"

 

"This is the Demomobile! There aren't any bullets! Demoman don't use guns!"

 

Soldier reached into his pocket, fished out a shotgun shell and shoved it into Scout's mouth. "Here, you can borrow this one. But I need it back once your surgery's done."

 

"Jane, we're burnin' moonlight here," Tavish pointed out, slowly putting the sword back down. "Do you want me to drive? Because I can drive if it's that big of a problem."

 

"By all means," Jane replied. "I wanna talk to the kid, anyway."

 

"Yeah, sure. Just... play nice," Tavish replied, jogging up to the driver's seat and slipping inside. "And don't mess with his leg. We're gonna get a professional to patch him up once we're done here. Shoulda done that from the beginning, really."

 

"Yes, sir." Jane let go of Scout and stepped back. As the personnel carrier lurched back to life, and Jane pointedly rolled his neck. "So... Are we gonna have a problem, kid?"

 

Scout stared at him for a moment, then fished the shotgun shell out of his mouth. "You're kiddin', right? You're the one who hit me with a freakin' APC, an' you're askin' if  _ I _ have a problem? I oughta sue your ass."

 

"Hah!" Jane barked. "I happen to be a lawyer myself, son! You are welcome to try!"

 

"You're not a lawyer, Jane," Tavish interjected.

 

"I am too a lawyer!" Jane snapped. "Just because I've been disbarred, that doesn't mean I stop being a lawyer!"

 

"That's exactly that that means!"

 

"Wait, you're a lawyer?" Scout said, tilting his head to the side. "What kinda lawyer knows how to drive an APC?"

 

"I know lots of things!" Jane snapped. "I have acquired a very special set of skills. I can drive an APC! I can field-strip a Cleaner's Carbine in 25 seconds! I can survive for a month in the woods with nothing but a knife and a pocket watch! I know how to monitor and maintain a city-wide aerial surveillance network! I am an ordained Catholic priest! I can even do a little hacking if the situation calls for it!"

 

"Wait wait wait, go back one," Scout interjected, waving his arms. "You're a lawyer and a priest?"

 

"A-ffirmative!"

 

"...A priest," Scout repeated. "What the hell kinda priest drives an APC and carries shotgun shells in his pocket?"

 

"A very, very prepared one," Jane snarled.

 

Scout sighed and crossed his arms. "Uh huh. And how do you know how to do all that stuff?"

 

"The Internet, mostly."

 

"You can get a preaching license over the Internet?"

 

"Sure you can! I have! It may not be a hundred percent legal, but let me tell you, if we were in Guam--"

 

"Hold on, lemme get this straight," Scout blurted out, cutting him off. "You're a lawyer, a hacker, a priest, a survivalist, a gun nut and you can drive an APC? Why? Why do you need to do all those things?"

 

Jane let out a vicious snarl and looked the Scout right in the eyes. "Darkness falls across the land. The Witching Hour is close at hand."

 

"The Wit..." Scout hesitated for a moment, then cringed. "...Okay, that's... uh... Now you made it weird. An' I was already in the back of the Demomobile, gettin' operated on by Tavish fuckin' DeGroot."

 

"That's Finnegan!" Tavish interjected.

 

Scout snorted and let out a soft chuckle. "...Yeah."

 

Jane, for his part, rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. "Trust me, son. The world is a weird and dangerous place. You have to be ready, especially if you're getting into our line of work."

 

Scout's eyes shot open. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Who said I was doin' that?"

 

"I did, just now." Jane snapped, jabbing a finger at Scout's face. "It makes sense. You are young, agile, very quick, and apparently you have custom augmentations. Whatever those do, they gave you enough of an edge to hold your own against Demoman for a while. That is not nothing! Plus, you are a gang leader -- and from what I hear, a good one -- so you have a strong tactical mind and you can handle yourself in a fight. And most importantly, you know Demoman's secret identity and I cannot think of anything else to do with you."

 

"Pffffft." Scout limped over to the stretcher, rolled his eyes and sat down. "Well, I don't think I wanna get roped into this, dude. I've got enough problems."

 

"You are already roped into this, son! You roped yourself into this the second you took off Demoman's mask. You can come along quietly or you can get dragged!"

 

Scout grunted and rolled his eyes, swinging his good leg up onto the stretcher. "Whatever, man. You're a freakin' lunatic, and I'm only stickin' around with you guys until you fix my leg."

 

Jane suddenly darted over to Scout and grabbed him by his collar. "Let's get one thing straight," he growled. "I do not care for your casual stigmatization of the mentally ill!"

 

Scout blinked once, twice, and then a couple more times for good measure. "...Uh, what?" he eventually got out.

 

"Did I stutter?" Jane snapped. "Being mentally ill is no different from being physically ill, and should be treated as such! Casual use of words like lunatic to describe people you just don't like make people who actually ARE mentally ill feel unsafe and uncomfortable asking for help! I will not tolerate microaggressions from soldiers under my command! Am I making myself clear?!"

 

"Wh-- I-- Jeez, man, it's just a figure of speech! What the hell does it matter t' you?!" Scout blurted out.

 

"Haven't you ever read  _ 1984, _ maggot?" Jane snapped. "Language shapes how we THINK! Casual use of ableist language breeds ableism -- if not for you, then for others! You have to think about the words you use and what they mean! It may be a difficult habit to get into, but you have to TRY! You have to consider what you're saying and apply your basic sense of EMPATHY to it, or you'll be marching with the Nazis and the businessmen before you know it!"

 

"Whoa, Godwin's Law! Godwin's Law!" Scout blurted out, leaning away from Jane. "Seriously, why the hell you bringin' Nazis into this, dude? It's 2068! There aren't any Nazis anymore!"

 

Jane burst out laughing, shoving Scout away from him. "What the hell kind of happy fantasy world have YOU been living in? Because I would LOVE to visit it sometime! I would LOVE to live in a world where the sun shines every day, lollipops grow in the fields and kitty-cats and puppy-dogs float through the sky like blimps, but I can't, because I have to live in the REAL WORLD! You know, the place where the American government is a front for corporate interest, your access to the law and education is dictated by your skin color and yes, ACTUAL LITERAL NAZIS are marching in the streets!"

 

"Uh, Jane?" Tavish interjected. "I'm gonna have to ask you to calm down, lad."

 

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" Scout asked.

 

"If you don't know, you're not paying attention!" Jane snapped. "Congratulations -- you have just been drafted into MY war! And make no mistake, it is a war that MUST be fought! But it is not a war that can be won with guns or bombs! Its weapons are picket signs and megaphones! Its trenches are the city streets and legislative offices! And it soldiers are men and women and people who do not fall clearly into either category -- ordinary people, just like you! But let me be clear -- this war will NOT be won by apathy! It will require your spirit and soul, your heart and mind, your sweat and tears! Only when you and all those like you are truly dedicated to justice and equality will we know peace! It is the American way! And I will not stop fighting until America is restored!"

 

Scout blinked, and a flash of recognition shot across his face. "...I've heard that before," he said, uncharacteristically softly.

 

"Good!" Jane growled, crossing his arms. "That means I am communicating effectively!"

 

Scout swallowed, processing his thoughts for a moment... then shrieked and leaned away from Jane. "Oh my holy freakin' stupid crap!" he blurted out. "Y-You're-- I know you! You're the guy who shot up that neoconservative conference back in '49!"

 

Jane growled and slammed his fist into his open hand. "And that's another thing! We will ignore the fact that the Hale family has completely bought out Congress and any scum-sucking fruit basket with a point to prove can pick up a Gatling gun at the corner drugstore! That is not even the big issue here! I purchased Mann Co. weaponry and traveled to that convention armed, with the intent to do harm! And I DID do harm! I killed fifty-three Nazis with a rocket launcher! It was one of the deadliest spree killings in American history, and yet I AM STILL HERE! I SHOULD NOT HAVE EVEN MADE IT TO THE COURTROOM! DO YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I DID, MAGGOT?! IT IS BECAUSE I AM WHITE! THE ONLY REASON THE POLICE TOOK ME ALIVE IS BECAUSE I'M WHITE! RACIAL BIAS IN THE JUSTICE SYSTEM IS A REAL THING AND IT MUST BE STOPPED!"

 

"Holy crap!" Scout yelped. "You're insane! You're actually freakin' insane!"

 

Suddenly, Jane's hands shot forward and wrapped themselves around Scout's throat. He screamed a vicious scream, hauling him upwards and slamming him back down into the stretcher. "MENTAL ILLNESS IS NOT SYNONYMOUS WITH VIOLENCE!" he screamed.

 

Scout gasped for air and found none. He clawed viciously at Jane's muscular hands, and of course could make no progress towards prying them off him. With what little remained of his lung capacity, he managed to gasp out:  _ "You-- are-- not-- freakin'-- helping--!" _

 

Suddenly, Tavish stomped on the brakes. The APC skidded to a rough stop, and Jane stumbled forward and slammed headfirst into the wall, releasing his grip on Scout as he fell. Scout gasped for breath and clutched at the edges of the stretcher, somehow managing to keep himself from flying away. Jane wasn't so lucky. Tavish, meanwhile, leapt out of the driver's seat, scrambled into the passenger hold and slammed Jane into the wall. "How many times do I have to tell ya to take your damn pills?!" he bellowed.

 

"Now is not the time to be arguing about my pills!" Jane bellowed back.

 

"W-Wait, you really are crazy?!" Scout blurted out.

 

"I am not crazy!" Jane snapped. "I suffer from a diagnosed mental illness which I am receiving treatment for! That does not make me crazy!"

 

"Oh yeah? Which mental illness?"

 

"That's none of your damn business!" Jane roared, viciously punching the wall. By sheer chance, his fist landed on a button, and a holographic projection flashed to life on the wall. The projection appeared to show an aerial view a some city street, littered with men and women in red and blue. The raucous sounds of clattering gunfire filtered into the passenger car, but softly enough that a conversation could still be had.

 

"It doesn't count as receivin' treatment if you don't take your damn pills!" Tavish bellowed. "That was the deal! You can work for me as long as you take your pills!"

 

"I told you, I cannot THINK when I take those pills!" Jane bellowed back. "I hate them! They make me feel all fuzzy!"

 

"JANE!"

 

"I cannot AFFORD to be fuzzy right now!" Jane snapped, gesturing wildly to the hologram. "Not while BLU is... falling... back?"

 

The passenger hold fell silent. As one, all three of the passengers slowly tilted their heads to the side and turned to face to holoprojector. Sure enough, the soldiers in nondescript blue armor were running away from the soldiers in red, occasionally shooting over their shoulders to keep the REDs off their backs. It was impossible to tell why, since all of them wore concealing, reflective helmets that completely concealed their faces, but they didn't carry themselves like soldiers who were surrendering.

 

"...They're... They're fallin' back!" Tavish blurted out, releasing Jane and darting over to the holoprojector. "Why are they-- Jane, link up! I need a better eye on the battlefield!"

 

"Already on it, sir!" Jane snapped, grabbing some kind of electronic device about the size of a keyboard from the wall. He yanked out a thin cord from the top of the device and viciously stabbed it into his right temple with a satisfying mechanical snap. He yanked off his sunglasses and tossed them to the ground beside him. He stared blankly ahead, saying nothing. He squinted slightly, and sure enough, the camera lurched to life, following slowly after the BLU soldiers. "Yes... Yes, they are definitely falling back!"

 

"Why?" Tavish asked, scratching his head. "They've only been attacking for... what, twenty minutes? BLU's never run an attack this short!"

 

"I don't know!" Jane yelled back. "There must be something going on here! I... hold on a second. I have an idea." He tilted his head up slightly, and the camera swiveled up along with him. It showed a lovely view of the city skyline, with RED's headquarters looming in front of it. Slowly, the camera began to pan right, getting a nice view of the city as a whole.

 

"...Uh... what're you up to, Major Malfunction?" Scout asked.

 

"What did I say about microaggressions, maggot?!" Jane snapped. "Let me just... Ah-ha! There's the... oh. Oh, no."

 

The hologram showed a clear aerial view of Teufort's skyline, showing the central headquarters of Builders' League United. It stood tall and imposing against the skyline as ever, and there was nothing really unusual about it... except for the fact that an unmarked red helicopter was circling around it.

 

Tavish's eye shot open. "...Bloody hell. That's... Is that... Is that one o' RED's choppers?"

 

"Can't be," Jane snapped. "BLU moved the attack up a week. The only reason they'd have to do that is if they lost the element of surprise and wanted to regain it. RED can't have gone behind their back."

 

"Well, maybe they just scrambled the chopper in response to the attack," Scout suggested, scratching his head. "I mean, their HQ's are like, four blocks away from each other, and they've both got helipads."

 

"Nah, that can't be it." Tavish swung his hand across the hologram, rippling it slightly. "If they sent a helicopter from their HQ, it'd have their logo on it. Plus, all their choppers in the city are licensed for commercial purposes only. They keep the unmarked military choppers at their Dustbowl facility. That's at least an hour out."

 

"Then what's a RED unmarked military chopper doing here?" Jane asked.

 

"I don't know!" Tavish blurted out. "Maybe it's..." He hesitated for a moment, then blinked. "...Wait. Jane, can you get a tracer on 'em?"

 

"These drones aren't rated for that kind of altitude, Tavish," Jane shot back.

 

"So can you?"

 

"It'll be tricky, but yes." Without another word, Jane donned a determined grimace and tilted his head upwards. The camera zoomed in on the helicopter, and the drone shot forward.

 

Scout blinked and shot Tavish a look. "...Uh..." he said, tilting his head to the side slightly, "is he--"

 

"Shhh," Tavish hissed, throwing his finger over his lips. "Let the man focus."

 

"Five hundred feet and closing!" Jane snapped through gritted teeth. "I'm... running into some wind resistance up here. Correcting."

 

"C'mon, lad," Tavish murmured, crossing his arms and staring intently at the hologram. "You've got this. Just like the last time..."

 

"Three hundred and closing!" Jane suddenly leaned to the side slightly. The holographic viewer tilted violently in the other direction, then slowly leveled out. "Umf! ...Okay. Okay, I think that was the worst of it. Wind seems to be dying down the higher I get. Odd. Proceeding to-- ohhhhh, no..."

 

The helicopter began to swirl slowly upwards and began hovering just off the side of the building. Tavish's eye snapped open, and his foot swept forward along the ground. "Jane, we're losin' our window!" he blurted out, dramatically pointing to the screen.

 

"On it, sir! Decloaking and increasing speed!" Jane's body tensed up. He gritted his teeth and curled his hands into fists. He leaned forward and growled softly. The video feed of the drone showed the helicopter slowly rising upwards. The drone sped after it, quickly gaining. Tavish tapped his foot, staying silent. Scout just leaned back slightly and watched the veins bulge in Jane's neck.

 

Suddenly, something shot off the roof and slammed into the side of the helicopter. It bounced off with what surely would have been a weighty thump if the video feed had any sound, and tumbled down. The camera just had enough time to register a shattered human in blue power armor, faceplate shattered to reveal the broken face of a Korean woman, before Jane leaned to the side. The feed suddenly cut to static, and when it cut out, the camera was too blurry to see anything. Jane screamed, swiping his arms randomly in front of him. "I'M HIT! I'M HIT! I'M GOING DOWN!"

 

"Ah, cripe!" Tavish blurted out.

 

"Aw, crap!" Scout blurted out.

 

"I'VE GOTTA GET THIS THING STABLE!" Jane roared incoherently, slammed his fists into the keyboard, grabbed it and shot to his feet. He started doing some kind of primal dance with the machine, waving it around like he was trying to attract the attention of an ancient god. "COME ON!" he bellowed. "DO NOT DO THIS TO ME! YOU HAVE NEVER GIVEN UP ON ANYTHING IN YOUR LIFE, AND I DO NOT EXPECT YOU TO START NOW! YOU HEAR ME, PEPPER-POT PETE?!  **DON'T YOU DIE ON ME!** "

 

Suddenly, as if in response, a vicious scream ripped through the speakers and echoed through the personnel compartment:  **"** **UUAAAAAAAAAGH! REDMOOOOOOOOND!** **"**

 

The compartment feel eerily quiet after that. Tavish and Scout just stared at the blurry screen, saying nothing. After a couple of moments,, Scout found it appropriate to break the silence. "What the hell was that?!"

 

"...Oh, this is worse than I thought," Tavish murmured.

 

"Power restored!" Jane barked. The video feed continued wobbling for a couple of seconds, then quickly began to even out. It wobbled quite a bit, but it was at least stable enough to see through again. "...Stable, sir!" Jane blurted out, panting heavily. "I... Oh, God. Not for long, though. Rotor three's out. I can't stay up here much longer."

 

"Bloody hell..." Tavish sighed and shook his head. "Alright, Jane. Get the drone back down to standard operating altitude."

 

"Negatory!" Jane snapped. "This is our only lead! I have one shot!" Jane twisted his hand around and pulled an invisible trigger. He kept that trigger held down for a few long seconds, hand shaking slightly, staring intently at something... and then released it. With the loud, unmistakable noise of something being punted out of a pressurized cylinder, a flash of red light shot across the wobbling viewscreen and up to the helicopter. The cab fell silent for a long moment, and then...

 

...a red light flashed on the belly of the chopper.


	15. Skullpluggery

The night raged on with no sign of stopping, but the city was still lit up like a Smissmas tree. On a night like this, the rain should've been coming down like the angels had lost one of their own. But Mother Nature had no sense of dramatic tension tonight. Such were the drawbacks of living in a desert. Still, one makes do with the situation they're given, and The Spy was no exception.

 

Olive leaned back in the passenger seat, pressed her head into her hand and laughed. It was a rich, caramel laugh, tinged with relief and ecstasy. The Spy had never heard it before. It made for a pleasant change of pace. "We made it," she sighed. "I can't believe we made it."

 

"Indeed," The Spy said, nodding faintly. He took one hand off the steering wheel and briefly checked his watch. "It's 10:31 now. I have some high-ranking contacts within Mann Co., and if I know them, at least one of them will still be working to coordinate the search. I'll have this data on Mr. Hale's desktop within the hour. As soon as he learns who's really behind all this, his men will stop coming after you."

 

"What about Jackie?"

 

"Jackie will get exactly what's coming to them. They may be able to dodge the police for a while if they're lucky, but they can't fool Mann Co. twice." In spite of his best efforts, the corner of The Spy's mouth twitched. "In fact, for the sheer humiliation, Mr. Hale might deign necessary to handle this himself."

 

Olive smiled and gently placed her hand on The Spy's knee. "Thank you," she sighed. "Thank you for saving my life."

 

"Think nothing of it, madam," The Spy replied. "Just part of the job."

 

With that, he steadily applied the brakes and pulled into a nearby alley. He hit the headlights and unlocked the doors, then turned to face her. "This is as far as I can take you," he said. "Your apartment is three blocks north. You'll be safe there."

 

"Won't they be watching?"

 

"Not once they learn the truth," The Spy replied. "Just go home, get some sleep, and try to put all this behind you."

 

"Of course..." Olive let out a heavy sigh and opened the door. She exited the car slowly, breathing heavily, and made to leave.

 

Before she could go, however, The Spy climbed out of the car himself, reached into his jacket and pulled out a small envelope. "One more thing," he said.

 

Olive looked back, arched an eyebrow and took the envelope. "What's this?"

 

"A little extra," The Spy replied, "for not asking my name."

 

Olive hesitated a moment, then nodded and pocketed the envelope. "Will I ever see you again?"

 

The Spy glanced down slightly, fished a lighter out of his pocket and finally lit his cigarette. "Let's hope not," he said simply.

 

Olive nodded. She opened her mouth to say something else, but thought better of it. She turned to leave and walked down the alley. The headlights illuminated her, framing her behind the shadow. Three quarters of the way to the end, she stopped, just for a moment. But she started walking again just a moment later. She didn't look back.

 

They never looked back.

 

The Spy took a long, heavy drag of his cigarette. As soon as she was gone, he walked casually around to the trunk of his car. He plucked his keys out of his pocket and opened the trunk, revealing a surprising amount of computer equipment. There was practically a whole damned server farm in here. Thankfully, it hadn't been damaged in the pursuit earlier. The reinforcements had been well worth the expense. The Spy pulled a simple cloth chair out of the trunk, unfolded it and sat down. A simple press of a button caused his a keyboard to flip over the rim of the trunk in front of him with a short, mechanical whir. And once he'd done that, it was only a few short keystrokes to take him to Mann Co.'s American headquarters.

 

A monitor flickered to life, revealing a plump man with black, greasy hair and a thick boxcar mustache sitting at a desk. He wasn't looking at the screen. He was looking at a screen slightly to the right. The Spy let out a short chuckle. "Working late?"

 

The man's eyebrows shot up for only a moment, and then his head snapped left. "...Oh," he said simply. "It's you again."

 

"Olive Patrell is not your saboteur," The Spy replied, fingers whizzing across the keyboard. "She is being framed by Jackie Hart."

 

"Jackie Hart?" the man repeated. "Jackie's been a valued employee for ten years now. Why should I believe she'd betray the company?"

 

"When have I been wrong before?" The Spy's eyes twinkled slightly as he pressed the enter key. "I'm uploading the evidence to your machine now. Look it over, and judge for yourself."

 

Sure enough, a soft ding came through the other side of the monitor. The man broke eye contact with The Spy, clicked around on his other monitor for a moment and fell silent. He stayed silent for a few long minutes, just staring at the text before him. After a long time, he let out a heavy sigh and pinched his brow. He let out a couple of heavy pants, then weakly tapped his earpiece. "...P... Panther Squadron, stand down," he murmured. "Repeat, stand down."

 

"I'm glad we cleared that up," The Spy said, smiling warmly. "See that justice is done, Monseiur Reddy."

 

Reddy opened his mouth to say something else, but The Spy hung up before he could get it out. He took a long, heavy drag of his cigarette and stood up. He glanced up at the city skyline looming overhead and just... stared at it for a while. The night was clear and cool. The sounds of the city filtered in from all directions. A crimson helicopter passed overhead. All things considered, everything was calm. And only, what, eight people had tried to kill him tonight? Nine?

 

All things considered, The Spy reflected, a simple case.

 

And as if in response, there came a bright blue flash and three short chirps from the trunk. The Spy quickly looked back down.  _ "ENCRYPTED TRANSMISSION INTERCEPTED FROM B.L.U. CENTRAL HEADQUARTERS," _ flashed a message across the screen.

 

The Spy smirked and sat down again. He rolled his neck, reached into the trunk and pulled out a pair of earbuds. He had a bit of time to kill before heading home. He could take this.

 

It had taken three hours for The Spy to tap into BLU's encrypted comm lines the first time. Of course, that was back at the beginning of his career. He had no doubt that he could do it faster now, not that he needed to. That was nine years ago, and they still hadn't enhanced their encryption. Oh, they  _ changed _ their encryption every week or so, enough to keep RED out of their files. But neither RED nor BLU was placed very high priority on keeping their technology up-to-date. Their firmware hadn't seen a solid upgrade since at least '62, maybe earlier. It was honestly kind of sad, but in a funny way. A few keystrokes later, he was in.

 

"--urally, we'll appreciate your discretion," a heavily modulated voice was saying.

 

"Discretion's a two-way street, mate," replied a low, quietly menacing on the other end. The voice was slightly less modulated than the first one, allowing an Australian accent to slip through. That didn't bode well, especially not after the case The Spy had just finished. "How'd you lot know where to find me, anyway?"

 

"We have dealings with people who've dealt with you before. You come highly recommended, Mr. Huntsman."

 

Huntsman. The Spy rolled the name over in his mind, tasting it, getting a sense for it. He'd heard it before, but he couldn't quite place it. With the alias Huntsman, he was obviously some kind of mercenary or contract killer, which meant BLU was up to their old tricks again. But what kind of killing would this be? The Spy didn't know. He'd have to find out. Instinctively, his fingers carried his second monitor to the Darknet. If this Huntsman was speaking to BLU on an encrypted line at 10:30 at night, the odds were good he could be found here.

 

"Heheh, 'course I do," Huntsman replied. "Right then. Let's get to business."

 

There was a strange, garbled noise that could have been the modulated man clearing his throat. "We have multiple targets for you," he said. "As far as we know, they're somewhere in the Neo Teufort area. You'll have to track them down."

 

"Well, lucky for you, trackin's my specialty. What do you know about these targets?"

 

"Not much. Our security feeds from the..." The modulated voice cleared his throat again. "...Our security feeds have been tampered with. We don't have all the details. We have one living witness, but he's..." Another pause. "It's been... difficult... to extract the information from him."

 

"He ain't talkin'?"

 

"From what I've gathered, he won't stop." Another garbled throat-clearing. "The point is, our information is limited and it may not be entirely reliable."

 

Huntsman let out a deep, guttural noise from the back of his throat, something between a grunt and a moan. "Lovely. Well, how much you got?"

 

"You're looking for a team of three," the client recited, "all white men. One was a bearded man with glasses. It's unconfirmed, but we believe he may have been killed during extraction. In either case, two other members of the team are still at large: their heavy weapons specialist and their street-surgeon, a Russian and a German respectively."

 

"Ah." Huntsman hesitated a moment. "What kinda heavy weapons are we looking at 'ere? A rocket launcher, or...?"

 

"When I said heavy weapons," the garbled man replied, "I meant a large, multi-barreled Gatling gun. We're not clear on its make or model."

 

"Gotcha." Huntsman sighed. "So, ya want me to counter-snipe some mercs who've been givin' you trouble. Risky business, that."

 

A brief pause. "Will it be a problem for you, Mr. Huntsman?"

 

"Nah," Huntsman replied. "Don't get me wrong. Your organization did good comin' to me. If anyone's gonna take out a guy who can carry around a Gatling gun, they're gonna have to do it from a distance."

 

The Spy arched an eyebrow. Distance...? An Australian?

 

Suddenly, all the pieces clicked into place. Of course. Huntsman was just another alias. This particular operative had been picking up and abandoning aliases over the course of his entire career -- The Sydney Sleeper, Night Owl, Thousand-Yard Punch, and now Huntsman -- and yet, he'd still managed to accrue a formidable reputation. So much so that The Spy had once spent a very exhausting weekend trying to learn his real name, in case he ever needed to know it.

 

"Mundy," he said aloud. Nicholas Mundy. A former big-game tracker from the Australian outback, Mundy had since found his calling as a high-profile (for a certain definition of the term) and highly-rated assassin-to-the-stars. The Spy had never seen him in person, which was likely the point. He'd gone to great pains to conceal his identity, and for good reason. Some said he was one of the deadliest assassins in the world.

 

And now he was going after a couple of Teufort mercenaries. "Merde," he muttered. BLU wanted two of Neo Teufort's finest dead. They must have transgressed against them somehow. But how? And why? And who were these men that BLU wanted dead so badly they'd hire Nicholas Mundy to do it? Intriguing things were happening in Neo Teufort... but then, when did they not?

 

"But, a job like this comes with repercussions," Mundy was saying. "There's a lotta mercenaries in Neo Teufort. If I kill some of 'em, I might piss off their friends. An' besides, I know who you are. You wouldn't be coming to someone of my talents of RED wasn't involved somehow. And RED's a powerful enemy for one man to make. I could run the rest of my life and I'd never be rid of 'em. 'Course, they wouldn't catch me, but it'd be bloody irritatin'. So if you want me to take this contract of yours, there'd better be somethin' good in it for me."

 

"We're prepared to offer you four hundred thousand US dollars to--"

 

Mundy let out a burst of laughter. "Four hundred thousand for a triple contract? You're a megacorporation, I thought you'd know a little more about risk/reward. I won't do it for less than 1 mil."

 

The Spy arched an eyebrow. Laughing in his employer's face and asking them to more than double the price was an interesting play. This Mundy character was either very brave or very stupid.

 

"Our rates are very fair, Mr. Huntsman," the garbled voice replied.

 

"No they're not," Mundy countered. "Case you forgot, you want me to go trudgin' 'round on a wild goose chase in Neo Teufort -- y'know, in the same state as Mann Co.'s American headquarters, where everybody and their dog's packin' three kinds of heat? Where half the city's got brain damage from that time the city conveniently forgot to fix the mill leaking lead into the groundwater? Where the gangs fight in the streets in Downtown, and the megacorps fight in the streets in Uptown? You want me to dip one toe into those murky waters, you'd better be givin' me hazard pay. Hazard pay to the tune of nine hundred."

 

The garbled man cleared his throat again. "...We can negotiate up to five."

 

Mundy scoffed. "Oh, now that's just plain insultin', mate. You've given me nothin' to work with 'ere. No faces, no names. All I've got is a specialty and an accent. This is gonna be difficult, grueling and dangerous work, and like I said, it could leave me with a lotta new enemies. And you're askin' me to take do it for only 500K? Don't underbid me, mate. I'm an assassin, not a tenement building. Eight hundred thousand, and not a cent lower."

 

The garbled man sighed. "Very well. If you're so insistent, we can work our way up to six hundred thousand, but we won't be covering your living or travel expenses."

 

"What'd I just say?"

 

The Spy's eyebrow arched further.

 

The garbled man's words caught in his throat for a second. "I... You don't really think we're going to pay you eight hundred thousand dollars for this, do you?"

 

"Why not? You're offerin' me pocket change anyway. Look, if you wanted to save money, you'd send your security team after the attackers. If you wanted plausible deniability, you'd send an anonymous rep down to the bar and pick up a local merc without mentioning your name. But you came to me directly, which means you want the job done right -- fast an' efficient an' with no chance of failure -- and you've decided to hire the best man for the job. I'm the best man for the job. And if you want the best, you've gotta pay for the best."

 

A long pause. "...Seven hundred thousand."

 

"Eight."

 

"S-Seven fifty?"

 

"If you're gonna jerk me around, I'm gonna piss off."

 

"N-No, wait, wait, I..." A pause, and then something that could have been a sigh. "Okay, fine. Fine. Eight hundred thousand."

 

Huntsman let out a lecherous chuckle. "Cheers, mate. Now here's how this is gonna work. I want the money in cash, half now and half when I finish the job. There'll be a camper van with the plates missing north of the old foundry tomorrow morning from 7:30 to 9 AM. You miss your window, I skip the job."

 

"That... That seems reasonable." Another one of the throat-clearing noises. "Of course, it goes without saying that for eight hundred thousand dollars, we'd better be buying your loyalty."

 

"Gotcha. I suppose you don't have photos for me?"

 

"Artist's renderings are the best we can do. We're sending them to you now."

 

"Over the line? What if someone's listenin' in?"

 

"Time is of the essence, Mr. Huntsman. I can assure you, this line is completely secure."

 

The Spy snorted and rolled his eyes over to the monitor. A few keystrokes later, three images popped up on screen, one after the other. Single-color police-quality sketches of a bespectacled man with coke-bottle glasses, a grizzled man with a bullet behind his ear, and a goateed man with spectacles. A couple more keystrokes, and these images shot over to the second monitor, and began whizzing through the facial recognition algorithms.

 

The line carried a brief pause. "Right then," Mundy said. "Soon as I get the money, they're as good as dead."

 

"They'd better be," replied the client. "Good luck." Then there was a click, and the line went dead.

 

The Spy smirked and terminated the call. That done, he glanced over to the three sketches and examined them. Hm. The Spy didn't recognize the first mercenary, but the second one was clearly Mikhail Boleslav. Interesting that Mikhail would choose now, ten years into his career, to enlist in the Gravel Wars. But no matter. He was involved now. Now, who was this third man? The Spy had seen him before, he was sure of it. He leaned back in his seat and shut his eyes, trying to picture an abstraction of the man, freed from the imperfect hand of the sketch artist...

 

Suddenly, his eyes snapped open. Heinrich. Of course. Dr. Heinrich did have something of an interesting criminal past -- with Mikhail, no less -- but he'd been scooped up by Speyrer Medical in their street-cleaning initiative five years ago. If he was back now... well. It was certainly something to keep in mind. He glanced over to his second monitor and tapped a few buttons. Within a minute, he had broken into Heinrich's phone, and the GPS data was pouring in. Where had he been, and where was he now?

 

As the answers slowly revealed themselves, the half-smile faded slowly from The Spy's face. He stared blankly at the screen for a moment, then suddenly stood up. Clenching his cigarette in his teeth, he folded up his chair, tossed it in the back, slammed the trunk and leapt into the driver's seat. He twisted the ignition, stomped on the gas and tore out into the streets, as fast as his car could carry him.

 

The night, it seemed, was still young.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember me?
> 
> ...No? Okay. I didn't think so. Anyway, here's some more cyberpunk.


	16. Behind Enemy Lines

The APC screeched to a halt, and Tavish snapped to attention. "Why'd ya stop?" he asked.

 

"We're here," Jane replied, stomping into the passenger hold. "The helicopter's going to be here in a few minutes. We need to put together a game plan before then."

 

Scout moaned and clutched at his leg. "It doesn't involve me, does it? Because I think my leg is infected or something."

 

"That is not how cybernetics work," Jane pointed out.

 

"Then why won't it stop hurting?!"

 

"I don't know! That's your prerogative! Just turn off the damn pain receptors if it's causing you that much trouble!"

 

Scout's head snapped up. "W-Wait, I can do that?"

 

"How should I know? It's your leg! Look, figure it out later! We have work to do!"

 

"Eh, yeah. Yeah, we do." Tavish crossed his arms and looked Jane right in the eyes. "So, where'd we end up?"

 

"We're at the Hale River," Jane explained. "We're at the foot of the mountain range, just west of The Well."

 

Tavish's eyebrows shot up. "Wait. You don't mean--"

 

"Yes, that's what I mean!"

 

Tavish cringed and crossed his eyes. "...Alright. Get it outta your system."

 

Jane stomped his foot and pointed dramatically. "I TOLD YOU SO, Tavish! I have been telling you for YEARS that Barber Dam was a front, but did you believe me?"

 

"Barber Dam?" Scout repeated. "On Hale River? What, the old abandoned hydroelectric dam? Nobody goes there anymore!"

 

"Well, somebody must, otherwise it would have burst by now!" Jane replied, crossing his arms. "I always knew this dam was a cover for something shady, and we're about to find out what!"

 

"Seriously?" Scout said. "But nobody's been out to this dam since the government put it up for sale in the '40s! Ain't this place, like, haunted or somethin'?"

 

Jane blinked and whipped around to face Scout. "Haunted? Where did you hear that? Answer me!"

 

"What? Uh-- I-I don't remember, I--"

 

"Talk, maggot! I haven't got all night!"

 

"I-I don't know, man, I read it on the Internet somewhere! What's it matter?"

 

Jane crossed his arms. "...You read a creepypasta about it, didn't you?"

 

"...Maybe?"

 

Tavish sighed. "Bloody hell, Jane, you're not gonna make me go chasin' creepypastas again, are ya? Have ya already forgotten about the Weaselcake Debacle?"

 

"That was two years ago! How many times do I have to apologize for--" Jane's words caught in his throat. He took a moment to swallow his tongue and visibly restrain himself. "...No. You're right, sir. Most creepypastas are full of shit. But respectfully, it's always better to be safe than sorry when dealing with the occult. I'd like to gather some reagents while we wait for the chopper to get here, so we can rule out the possibility."

 

"...Fair enough," Tavish said, shrugging. "Runnin' some tests couldn't hurt anyone. Just don't get your hopes up. Meantime, I'll look over the maps, see if I can figure out a plan of attack here."

 

"Understood. Moving out." Jane gave a quick salute and marched to the back of the van. He jabbed the button, then stood there patiently while the door slowly moved up. After a moment, he ducked under the door, pressed the button again and marched off into the night.

 

Scout stared after him, eyebrow arched at a curious angle, before eventually turning back to Tavish. "The hell was all that about?" he asked, jabbing a thumb in the general direction of the closing door.

 

"In our line of work," Tavish explained, "you've gotta be prepared for anything."

 

Scout blinked a couple of times. "...Including... what, dam ghosts?" 

 

"Including dam ghosts."

 

"...Okay, I know Jane's crazy," Scout said slowly, "but have you ever sat him down and explained that magic isn't real?"

 

Tavish let out a heavy sigh and pressed a button on the wall. A metal platform slowly lowered out of the wall with a mechanical whir, and Tavish took a seat on it. "Two things, lad," he said. "First of all, Jane really don't like to be called crazy."

 

"Yeah, he tried to strangle me."

 

"Well, he..." Tavish hesitated for a moment, then bowed his head. "He's tryin', alright? He has a condition."

 

"Ya don't say. Guy thinks he's a freakin' lawyer, and--"

 

"He is a lawyer."

 

Scout blinked and cocked his head to the side. "He what? I-- ow!" He cringed, clutching at his leg as another flurry of sparks burst out of his shattered ankle. "...Okay, y'know what, screw it. I'm just gonna take this thing off. You mind?"

 

"Nah, go ahead." Tavish nodded.

 

"Yeah, yeah, thanks," Scout muttered. He reached down and yanked off his belt, then hesitated. "...I, uh... could you gimme some privacy here?"

 

"Uh, yeah, sorry." Tavish quickly stood up, walked over to a nearby computer terminal and turned away from Scout.

 

"Thanks, Mr. DeGroot..." Scout hesitated a moment, then grunted softly and began the process. "Anyway, yeah, keep goin'."

 

"Right." Tavish nodded. "So, like I was sayin', Jane is a lawyer. Or at least, he was. Studied at Mannhattan Law, even. But Mannhattan's pretty competitive, so he picked up a fancy neural net to stay on top. You mighta saw him link in with that drone? His brain's wired, has been for a while. Problem is... when he first tried to augment himself, he ended up going with a Plutonidome."

 

Scout stopped halfway through unclasping his leg and snapped his head up. "Wh-- Wait, a Plutonidome? I thought all those things got recalled!"

 

"They did. And cases like Jane's are why." Tavish sighed, slowly shaking his head. "'Course, the general consensus among the professionals I've gotten him to see is that he had a pre-existing condition of some kind before that... though they can't all agree on what it was for some reason. But whatever else he's got, faulty cyberware short-circuitin' his brain didn't exactly make it better. Don't tell him I said that, though."

 

"Trust me, I wasn't gonna." Scout managed to pull his broken leg off with a dull, pneumatic hiss and set it next to him, letting out a loud, relieved sigh. "Ohhh, that's so much better."

 

"Wait, what?"

 

"Uh, I meant my leg, not..." Scout cringed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not Jane. Jane's, uh... sounds like he's got it rough."

 

"Aye. That he does," Tavish agreed.

 

"Yeah..." Scout smacked his lips and let out a short huff. "So, what, he got disbarred after that?"

 

"Actually, he got disbarred after he killed all those neoconservatives," Tavish replied. "But, second th--"

 

"Oh yeah, that reminds me," Scout said, pulling his pants up again. "I was gonna ask, how'd a masked vigilante who refuses to kill end up with a mass murderer for a sidekick?"

 

"He's not my sidekick."

 

"He's pretty much your sidekick."

 

"He's  _ not _ my sidekick. I took him out on a mission once and he..." Tavish cringed. "It... got a little nasty. Thank God she had that cyberspine, otherwise she never woulda made it."

 

Scout crossed his arms. "So why go to the trouble, man? Is Jane really worth the risk?"

 

Tavish hesitated a moment, then cleared his throat. "Well, he's clever. He does still know somethin' about the law, he's pretty damned good in a fight, and... yeah, he is technically a priest. He's a little unhinged, and sometimes it can be tricky to keep him in check, but... well, he's useful. Plus, after five years... he's a friend. At the end of the day, I'm glad I've got him on my side."

 

Scout scoffed. "Yeah, I guess it's better to make that guy a friend than an enemy. I mean, the guy believes in magic, for cryin' out loud."

 

Tavish cleared his throat again. "About that, actually--"

 

Suddenly, the computer console in front of Tavish crackled to life and began displaying a holographic image of Jane. "Tavish, hit the cloak!" the hologram bellowed, the tinny sound of rotors filtering in through the speakers. "I have eyes on the bandit, over!"

 

"Ah, shit!" In the blink of an eye, Tavish slammed his fist down on the console, and the familiar sound of a gust of wind flowed in and out of the room. "Cloak engaged! Come on home!"

 

"Negative! I can run reconnaissance from out here, over!"

 

"Jane, you sure that's a good idea?"

 

"Yes sir! I am a ghost! And not one of those shiny purple ghosts, either! An invisible ghost, over!"

 

"Jane, you're not exactly very sneaky."

 

"Well at least I'm not wearing plate armor, over!"

 

Tavish furrowed his brow and leaned over the console, staring intently at the blue-tinted hologram in front of him. After a moment or two, he let out a quick sigh and nodded. "Alright. Permission granted. Just stay out of sight, do not engage enemy hostiles and... do try to keep your voice down, yeah?"

 

"Sir, yes sir, over! I... uh, I mean sir, yes sir, over."

 

"Good. Be careful. Meantime, I'll suit up. If you need my help, buzz me."

 

"Affirmative. Going dark, over."

 

The cab fell silent after that. Tavish quickly stepped over to the armor rack and donned his chestplate. "Well, this is either gonna go really well or really bad," he chuckled. "Scout, lad, could ya give me a hand with this?"

 

Scout finished tying his empty pant leg into a knot, then glanced up at Tavish and back down at his broken leg. "Uh, no," he said.

 

"What?" Tavish said, turning around. "Why n-- oh, right. Sorry. I'll just, eh... handle this on my own, then."

 

Scout rolled his eyes and knotted his empty pant leg. "Yeah, you do that."

 

Tavish let out a soft grunt and continued putting on his armor. "...Yeah."

 

Scout glanced over at Tavish as he was suiting up. He didn't say anything for a minute or two. The sounds of heavy armor clanking against itself were the only ones to be heard. Eventually though, Scout did manage to work up the nerve to clear his throat. "So, uh... I've been thinkin' about what Jane said back there."

 

"What's that, lad?" Tavish asked, slipping his helmet on.

 

"Well, Jane was talkin' about... y'know, you takin' me under your wing. Sounded like he us t' team up, or somethin'."

 

Tavish hesitated a moment, then slowly turned to face Scout. "Do you want to team up with me?" he asked simply.

 

Scout shook his head. "Nah, man. I ain't exactly superhero material."

 

Tavish turned to face Scout, peering down at him with his one good eye. "Hey, ya did rob a Mann Co. supply truck, lad. Like Jane said, that's not nothin'. I wasn't sure how I felt about it at first, but... now I feel like we might be able to do some good work together."

 

Scout clicked his tongue and pointed indignantly at Tavish. "Look, man, nobody said I'm not a badass. But I'm not interested in beatin' up criminals in a frilly costume. I ain't got time for that. I mean, you're a CEO. You've got money to burn on fancy smoke bombs and bulletproof knight armor and frilly pants. Me, I've got seven brothers back on the East Coast workin' dead-end data entry and a single mom with Stage II lung cancer. You can talk about your principles and the code of law all ya want, but it ain't gonna trickle down. We don't got morals down here, Tav. We can't afford 'em."

 

Tavish didn't say anything for a minute or two. Eventually, he softly cleared his throat and crossed his arms. "...H... How old are you, Scout?"

 

"Twenty-four. Why?"

 

At that point, the intercom crackled again. "Tavish, I'm in position, over."

 

Tavish darted over to the console again, armor clanking against itself, and pressed the button. "Uh-- y-yeah, go ahead. You're on speakerphone. What do you see?"

 

"I'm on a cliff face," Jane recited. "There's a building to the left of me, looks like it's got a damn observatory on it. There are chain-link fences and a guard checkpoint in front of me... there's a tunnel down below me. There's a big fuck-off radar dish off to my left, but it's nothing compared to the one behind me."

 

"Radar dish?" Scout repeated. "Why would there be radar dishes at a hydroelectric dam?"

 

"That is the question, isn't it, son?" Jane chuckled. "Let's see... We've got about three hostiles around the area, not visibly armed. Trenchcoat-and-fedora crowd, probably spooks for someone or other. There's a ramp here that leads underground, and... oh look, here comes trouble."

 

Tavish snapped to attention instantly. "Who's screaming?"

 

"Don't know. White guy with a beard. EMTs are taking him underground, and he's blindfolded. Guy needs a sedative bad, but I don't think he'll be a problem. There's two more people here, also blindfolded. Trenchcoat folks are leading 'em away. Fat guy with a machine gun and... oh, damn it. Skinny guy, pointy beard, white trenchcoat with the lapels up."

 

Tavish rolled his eye. "Oh, brilliant. Mercenaries. Today just keeps gettin' better."

 

"Mercenaries?" Scout blurted out. "Yo, nobody said nothin' about mercenaries."

 

"Well, if they're above your pay grade, you can bloody well stay in the car." Tavish huffed, crossed his arms again and stared down at the hologram. "You recognize 'em, Jane?"

 

"I think so, sir, but I can't confirm. I left my binocs back at base. I'm gonna try to get a closer look."

 

"You sure?"

 

"Affirmative."

 

Tavish tugged at his sleeve for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But remember what I told you. Do not engage enemy hostiles except in self-defense. I'm serious. No huttah."

 

"With all due respect, sir, I'm fully aware this is a stealth mission. Give me some credit."

 

"Earn it."

 

"Sir, yes sir."

 

Scout chuckled softly and tugged at his collar. "...Uh... Tav? You okay, man?"

 

Tavish didn't say anything.

 

"Seriously, what?"

 

"I just..." Tavish clenched his fists. "I get really damn tired of the 'society made me the way I am today' speech."

 

Scout scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah? Well, why don't ya do somethin' about it?"

 

Tavish looked down, fell silent for a moment, then turned back to the intercom. "One day at a time, laddie. One day at a time."

 

And then the intercom crackled again. "Demo, come in," Jane hissed. "I have eyes on the targets, and I can confirm: the boys are back in town."


	17. Playing With Danger

Heavy and Medic were led down a ramp and around a corner into a cool, air-conditioned room, filled with the irregular beeping of computer equipment. They were led in a vague circle before being taken up a few stairs and hauled to a rough stop. "Stay here," said a man in a trenchcoat.

 

"Can we take these blindfolds off now?" Medic asked.

 

A brief pause. "Yes, but stay here. If you try to move, we'll know."

 

"Danke schön." Without another word, Heavy and Medic reached up to remove their blindfolds. As the trenchcoated men retreated into the distance, they took the opportunity to look around. They found themselves in a tall, cavernous room whose walls literally gave way to rock faces at certain points. The two of them stood on a tall circular platform with massive computer terminals scattered around it. There was an impractically large steel vent on the wall in front of them, outfitted with giant steel fans and ominous red lights. Above them, there was a massive steel dome, painted a dull off-white, outfitted with a massive fluorescent light that bathed the room in a sterile glow. They glanced around, taking all this in, then reached into their pockets and slipped their respective goggles back on. It was entirely possible that it was going to be a long night.

 

Medic elbowed Heavy in the side and pointed off to his left. "Loading zone," he said quietly. "Probably our best bet if we need to get out of here quickly."

 

"Is pretty far," Heavy pointed out. "We could both fit in that vent. We would not even have to crouch."

 

"Well, we don't know where it goes."

 

"We were blindfolded. We do not know where loading zone goes either."

 

"Can you even jump that high with Sasha?"

 

Heavy considered this for a moment, then lowered his head. "...Loading zone is fine."

 

"Good." Medic nodded, then let out a long breath. "So. Exciting night, wouldn't you say?"

 

"Yes." Heavy nodded as well, gently setting Sasha down at his feet. "It went well. I mean... aside from Player."

 

"Yes, aside from Player..." Medic sighed. "It's a shame he got taken off-guard like that. We could've used some of those grenades back on the roof."

 

"You cannot throw grenades on roof of a skyscraper," Heavy pointed out. "Wind would blow them off-course."

 

"Well, by that logic, you can't have a firefight on the roof of a skyscraper either," Medic countered, shrugging. "Besides, the wind wasn't that bad. I mean, it wasn't exactly dramatic howling gales so loud we couldn't hear the gunfire."

 

"No, was no Brisbane," Heavy agreed, "but point stands."

 

"Mm. I suppose it does." Medic stared up at the ceiling for a moment. "But weren't you always the one saying grenades are too easy?"

 

"We were fighting giant robot, Doctor. Eventually, you reach a point where nothing is too easy."

 

"...Hm. Well said. I suppose I'll have to--" Medic cut himself off mid-sentence and quickly glanced around. "...Did you hear that?"

 

"Hear what?"

 

"I thought I heard... screaming."

 

Heavy furrowed his brow and glanced around in return. "...I did not hear anything."

 

"...Hm." Medic shrugged. "It might've just been me."

 

"It might have been Player."

 

"It didn't sound like him," Medic responded, stroking his beard. "I think it might have been someone else..."

 

"Who?"

 

"I don't know..." Medic sighed, then gestured to the natural stone walls around them. "Well, let's recap. We're waiting to be paid for services rendered in an underground installation that has giant vents with sinister red lights, headed by a mysterious femme fatale and staffed by trenchcoated goons, and someone deep in the bowels of the facility may or may not be screaming. Do you think we should find cover?"

 

Heavy grinned and clapped Medic's shoulder. "Why do I need cover if I have you?"

 

"Oh, stop!" Medic chuckled, then shook his head. "But seriously, MediGas can't fix everything."

 

Heavy's smile vanished. "It can't?"

 

"Well, it can," Medic explained, "but a headshot'll put you down like anything else. Sure, it might not kill you outright if you're lucky, and if it doesn't you can regenerate new brain matter fast enough to save your life, but... well, it'll be _new_ brain matter. You'll lose any memories you may have had rattling around in there, which could be anything from high school geometry to how to control your bowels. So yes, cover is still a good idea."

 

"...O... Oh," Heavy muttered. He looked down for a moment, then let out a soft grunt. "...W-Will Player will be okay?"

 

"Oh! Oh, uh... he'll be fine," Medic assured him, "probably. I mean, I think so. Although, if he wants to get a neural booster, now might be a good time. I've heard good things about the MasterMind e6 recently..."

 

"That..." Heavy crossed his arms. "...does not make me feel better."

 

"...Yes, I know." Medic gently placed his hand on Heavy's shoulder. "Let me just... preemptively say I'm sorry, just in case things go... poorly. I didn't know him very well, but... I know you trusted him. I know it's not easy to lose a friend. I'm... I'm sorry."

 

"Thank you." Heavy sighed through his nostrils. "But you do not need to be sorry. If you had not healed him, he would have died there. Besides, we knew there would be risk."

 

"Ja..." Medic nodded, lowering his hand again. "...part of the job..."

 

There was a brief pause, at the end of which Heavy perked up his ears. "I heard the screams that time," he said.

 

"Oh, lovely, it's not just me," Medic chuckled. "Did that sound like The Player to you?"

 

"No," Heavy replied. "Is someone else."

 

Suddenly, a door slammed open behind them. Medic whirled around, needlegun at the ready. Heavy reached down to get Sasha and hauled her up with a grunt, then whipped around and spun her up. It took Heavy a second or two longer to prepare, and by that time, someone was already halfway to them. But not just any someone. The Player darted around another massive computer server, rounded the corner and sprinted towards them as fast as he could, Magnum clenched in his fist. He leapt up the stairs two at a time and charged up to Heavy. Heavy only barely had time to wonder what The Player was up to before he grabbed his lapel, hauled his head down and began to whisper forcefully in his ear.

 

Medic shot The Player an odd look, but lowered his needlegun. Sasha spun down with a dull whir. The sounds of beeping and the dull whir of an air-conditioning unit made it impossible to pick up anything but a croaky hiss from The Player. Even with his goggles, Heavy's expression was clearly one of shock and confusion.

 

After a moment or two, Player leaned back and stared up at Heavy expectantly. Heavy stared back down at him, still as unreadable as before. After what seemed to him like a very long time, he let out a shuddering sigh and nodded. "O... Okay, Player," he murmured. "I will do this."

 

The Player gave a curt nod and snatched his glasses from Medic's pocket. "I sense you don't believe me," he snarled, slipping them on. "You don't have to. Just be ready. Watch the signs, Mikhail."

 

"Wh-- H-How do you know my name?"

 

Instead of responding, The Player charged past Heavy and leapt off the platform in front of him. He hurled his Magnum into the vent in front of him and sailed through the air towards it, arms out. His hands caught the edge of the vent, and he hauled himself up. Without a word, he grabbed his Magnum off the floor and charged into the vent, casting an ominous shadow across the red light inside.

 

Medic eventually shrugged, holstering his needlegun again. "I thought he knew your name."

 

"Only my last name," Heavy replied, "and he only learned that tonight."

 

"Huh." Medic shrugged and shot Heavy a smile. "Well, if he's running around like that after being electrocuted in his brain, he'll probably recover just fine. Seems better than before, even. I didn't even know he _could_ talk."

 

"Doctor," Heavy muttered, "Player has no tongue."

 

Medic's smile vanished. "What? Then how did he...?" He stood there for a moment, staring blankly at the vent. He opened his mouth to say something, but no noise came out. Someone screamed again, louder this time. After a moment or two, he softly cleared his throat and turned back up to Heavy. "...Wh-What did he say to you?"

 

Before Heavy could respond, an alarm bell began to ring, and the entire base was covered in flashing red warning lights. A swarm of men in trenchcoats and fedoras, all armed with revolvers, swarmed the room from the same direction The Player had come. They were led by a striking, bespectacled young woman in a business skirt, holding a dart gun in her hands like a rifle. "Check the outside!" she ordered. "Don't let him escape!"

 

Before any of the men in trench coats could respond, a voice shot out of the vents. It wasn't The Player's voice, either. It was someone else. "That's her!" Someone Else bellowed. "THAT'S THE WOMAN WHO STOLE MY BRAIN!"

 

Medic whipped around, pulling out his needlegun again. "Oh, now what the hell?!"

 

The woman in purple readied her revolver. "INTRUDER!" she shouted, opening fire. Most of the men in trenchcoats followed suit, opening fire and peppering the vents with bullets. Heavy and Medic yelped and dove out of the way, leaping down off the circular platform to the floor below.

 

"I think we're being betrayed, Misha!" Medic yelled over the gunfire.

 

"Maybe we are not being betrayed," Heavy suggested. "This could be misunderstanding."

 

"Get this under control or she's going to kill someone," snapped the woman in purple above them, "and who do you think is going to have to clean it up?"

 

"What about the new subjects, ma'am?" asked one of the men in trenchcoats.

 

There was a gunshot, and the man in the trenchcoat cried out in pain. "Don't call them that now! They can hear you!"

 

"We are being betrayed, Doctor!" Heavy shouted, standing up and charging for the loading zone.

 

"I've got you!" Medic assured him, pulling out his MediGun and training it on him.

 

Before he could even push the lever forward, however, something pierced his back. It hit him in the left, right behind his heart. It didn't pierce enough to damage anything vital, but it was a dart right above his heart. He felt a cold warmth radiating out from the point of impact, and much faster than he would've preferred. Whatever he just got hit with, it was going to affect him quickly. He opened his mouth to blurt out a warning to Heavy, and heard himself say something. There were two clicks in the distance, and another dart slammed into Heavy's back. He stumbled, then whirled around and spun up Sasha. Before she could fire, another dart slammed into Heavy's chest. Heavy opened fire.

 

Medic stumbled, panting heavily and slipping behind Heavy. He walked backwards through the complex, his vision starting to blur, hearing his breath scrape against his ears. Heavy fired, but his aim was already beginning to waver. Another dart slammed into his chest. He let out a loud, two-piece groan, a staccato pair of notes that swirled around him like blood in the water. If one dart was doing this to him, Medic realized, three darts would might kill Heavy. Unless he healed him. He had to keep healing him. Heavy would get him out of here.

 

Medic collapsed, moaning. His MediGun was heavy, and getting heavier all the time. He tried to speak, but he couldn't. Heavy groaned and dropped Sasha. She fell to the floor with a dull, ugly clank and Heavy collapsed on top of her. Shit. Heavy probably wouldn't be getting him out of here, then. Men in trenchcoats rushed past them, and the woman in purple slowly stalked up to them. She was flanked by more men in trenchcoats, but these ones were pushing stretchers and wearing rubber gloves. Doctors. Okay. Maybe they weren't going to die, then. At least not right away. Someone picked Medic up and threw him down onto a stretcher. He let out a dull moan, and that was all he could do about it.

 

In the distance, he heard gunfire. In the distance, he heard explosions. In the distance, he heard something that sounded like an angry machine. He did not hear Heavy. He did not hear friendly voices. And he did not hear anything familiar. But there was something else. In the distance, as his vision faded, he heard the scream he'd heard before all this started. It was still in the distance, but it was growing louder. He heard the scream, and then he heard a voice echoing up towards him.

 

"Yamero! YAMERO! Mou gaman dekinai!"

 

And the last thing Medic heard before he slipped into unconsciousness was uncontrolled, crazed laughter.


End file.
